


Reciprocity

by oxeyed



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angstshipping - Freeform, Blood and Injury, Deathshipping, Eventual Romance, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied Yami Bakura/Marik Ishtar, M/M, Mild Language, Mystery, Post-Canon, Slice of Life, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Some Humor, The Mariks share a body, pretty much every flavor of Bakura/Malik on some level
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22963384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxeyed/pseuds/oxeyed
Summary: Ryou Bakura wanted to leave the past behind. That's what he tells himself, up until the moment he finds a familiar face on his doorstep one rainy afternoon. But Malik Ishtar isn't the person Ryou remembers, and he has questions that Ryou isn't prepared to answer.Content warnings: some mild violence and blood, language. Nothing inconsistent with the T-rating.
Relationships: Bakura Ryou & Marik Ishtar, Bakura Ryou/Yami Bakura/Marik Ishtar/Yami Marik, Bakura Ryou/Yami Marik
Comments: 23
Kudos: 30





	1. 1

1

_I bless you madly  
sadly as I tie my shoes  
I love you badly  
just in time, at times, I guess  
Because of you I need to rest  
Because it’s you that sets the test_  
-David Bowie, “Cygnet Committee”

The rain was starting to pick up.

A stream of people spilled out of the narrow subway entrance onto the sidewalk. Most of them eager to get home. All of them eager to avoid the rain. But as the stream reached the crest of the stairs, it was forced to part around a solitary figure.

In the midst of the crowd pouring onto the sidewalk, Ryou Bakura barely noticed the occasional nudges and dirty looks. He was lost in thought. Huddled in his black polyester overcoat, he stared at the downpour, rain spattering on his upturned face, and wondered if he should stop for groceries on the way home.

There were considerations. The weather, for one. Spring had made a few flirtatious overtures throughout the week, but the shadow of winter still weighed heavy on downtown Domino. The rain was only going to get worse.

Alternatively, the store meant more walking. Normally, he liked walking. It felt more private than the train, and he preferred that brief taste of the elements. But when the cold bit through his clothes and the rain pounded on his umbrella like a demonic marching band, he had to doubt his commitment to the custom. Normally, walking let him clear his head, reset after the monotony of life. Today, however, it only heightened the agony of anticipation. 

Thus the third, and most important, consideration: in his bag he could feel the burning weight of his latest acquisition: a new Monster World campaign module, promising hours of immersive, escapist entertainment by way of _Blade of the Necromancer_ , a world where humankind was once again threatened by a evil overlord with a penchant for black magic and a weakness for customizable player characters.

Counterpoint: what was the point of escapism without snacks?

An excellent counterpoint. Considering the matter settled, Ryou returned his attention to the sidewalk, and he moved forward again, blending back into the crowd, trying to walk while he rummaged through his messenger bag for his umbrella. 

It only took a few extra minutes to walk down the block to the corner store, and only a few minutes more to run inside and purchase an armful of cookies, but in the meantime the downpour had intensified. 

Starting to regret his choice, he pulled his collar up around his neck and tucked the plastic packaging under his coat as he hurried the last few blocks home. His vision was hampered by the rain; he held his umbrella low and close with one hand and his groceries in the other, his eyes fixed on the ground as he wound his way up the sidewalk.

He failed to notice the person who lurked in behind the stairs. He was almost to the shelter of the overhang when they finally stepped forward, obstructing his path, and forced Ryou to look up.

Startled, he bobbed into an awkward bow, fumbling with the packages as he recited the usual apologies. Then the evidence of his eyes slowly, painfully, connected with his brain and he stopped short.

He looked up.

“Malik?”

He hadn’t seen Malik Ishtar since…well, since _Egypt_. Sure, they’d exchanged a few emails afterward, brief courteous notes that never acknowledged the things they had in common, but that had been years ago. It didn’t explain why he was _here_ , in Japan, or why he wasn’t wearing a coat, or why his clothes were soaked with rain and spattered with darker spots, spots Ryou could only hope were mud.

Malik stood still. He seemed impassive, strangely so, frowning as he examined Ryou, tilting his chin slightly as if he were puzzled.

“You’re the wrong one,” he said. “I want the other one.”

“The other—?”

Oh. _Oh._

Ryou shook his head, took in Malik’s clothing again: disheveled, dirty. His distinct lack of jewelry, his flat expression, his indifference to the weather. He’d cut his hair at some point. It was growing back out now; the rain plastered it over his ears and down his neck. Obviously he’d changed. He’d grown a little taller, put on more muscle, but there was something else different about him, too. Something that didn’t sit well. The way his eyes looked, maybe, or the set of his jaw. There was a strange flatness of affect there, an unhurried indifference that marked him apart from the Malik Ishtar that Ryou knew.

“You’re not Malik,” he said. “You’re his—“

His… _what?_ Ryou had heard Malik refer to his alternate personality as a monster: a refracted segment of his childhood twisted by suppressed memories and given shape by the Millennium Items. 

But the Millennium Items had been destroyed. This…person…wasn’t supposed to exist anymore.

Ryou squared his shoulders, adjusted his grip on his groceries, hefted his umbrella a little higher. “Where’s Malik?”

“Gone.”

They regarded each other through the rain.

“Now,” Malik said. “Summon your friend. The thief.”

Ryou creased his forehead, baffled. “What?”

Malik did not respond. But he had to know. Surely he knew.

Ryou took a short breath, exhaled.

“The Spirit of the Ring’s not here anymore,” he said, slowly. “So I can’t do that.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s—gone.”

Malik did not move. 

“He’s gone,” Ryou repeated, with more finality, tightening his grip on the umbrella.

Slowly, Malik shrugged, twisting his head to view Ryou from another angle, his expression unreadable. 

His voice was quiet under the patter of rain. “I’m not.”

Stunned silent, Ryou took a moment to weigh the implications of Malik’s words. He didn’t remember much of the Battle City tournament—he wasn’t conscious for most of it—but he’d heard stories from the others. Stories that painted this version of Malik as destructive, sadistic. Demonic, even.

He studied Malik again, more thoughtfully. 

_I’m not._

Malik hadn’t spoken it like a threat. So what if it wasn’t? What if it was a question to be answered, instead? Malik should have known that the Thief King was gone. So why did his other self come here, knowing that all he would find was the shell of a host? But, as Malik insisted, he was not gone. 

So why should anyone else be?

It was compelling. And Malik didn’t seem motivated by a taste for violence. Even if that changed, Ryou could probably handle it. 

Probably.

Ryou glanced up at his apartment, weighed the potential dangers against his growing curiosity, and shrugged. _Blade of the Necromancer_ could wait until tomorrow.

“Maybe I could help you,” he said. When he saw no immediate reaction from Malik, he continued. “It’s pretty cold out. Maybe you want to warm up, eat something. Maybe then we could figure out what’s going on. If you want.”

Malik growled dubiously, but when Ryou took the initiative, moved toward the stairs, Malik stepped aside and let him pass without incident. 

Once he reached the second story landing, Ryou folded down the umbrella and shook the excess water out. He glanced down at Malik. “You coming?”

For a moment he thought Malik would ignore him and turn away. Instead, Malik kicked the railing, glared briefly into the street, and followed Ryou up the stairs. 

Ryou’s apartment was small, a three hundred square foot studio with little maneuverability and even less seating. Still, it was bigger than student housing, and Ryou had been living here for long enough that it felt more or less like a home.

Malik stood by the door, arms folded, and watched Ryou hang up his coat, put aside the umbrella, and place his cookies on the counter. 

Tenderly, Ryou stashed his bag, with the new Monster World capsule inside, on his desk. He could only handle one supernatural mystery at a time.

Ryou returned to the kitchen, where he turned on the stove and began to pore studiously through his cupboards. He flicked through various packages of instant soba noodles, trying to look as if he was torn between yakitori chicken and teriyaki. He needed a minute to think. 

So a ghost showed up at his house. Wasn’t the first time. But _why?_

Instant noodles wouldn’t do. Tea first, then dinner. Ryou found something suitable, a nice oolong, and returned to the stove. He bent over the kettle and turned it on, using the action as an opportunity to sneak a glance at Malik again.

He should have offered Malik a towel. He was just standing there, dripping water on the floor, eyes fixed on Ryou. His bland expression gave no insight into what he might be thinking.

Ryou was taking an unnecessary risk. When the devil shows up at your door, you don’t invite him in. You run for your life. Ryou knew that. Intellectually. 

But his track record with the paranormal was riddled with bad decisions. How could he resist the opportunity to sate his curiosity? How could he turn Malik away, with so many questions unanswered?

Besides, he needed to detain Malik. If this… _version_ …of him was as dangerous as people claimed, then Ryou was well-equipped to minimize the damage, contain the situation, notify the proper parties. Arguably, he was doing the right thing. 

“Do you want something to eat?” Ryou asked. “I could make dinner.”

A low grunt sounded from Malik’s corner of the room. Encouraging. 

“How long have you been in Japan?”

No response to that, either. Clearly this iteration of Malik was more reticent than the original. 

Shrugging, Ryou went to the fridge and opened the door. As he contemplated the various condiments, produce, and leftovers, he sensed Malik in the kitchen, circling the table, approaching him from behind. 

Ryou turned. Malik was upon him. He pushed Ryou back against the open refrigerator, his fist wrapped in the collar of Ryou’s shirt.

Bottles rattled. Ryou grabbed at the fridge door to maintain his balance, but he did not struggle. He found his footing, and warily stood still.

“Enough of this,” Malik said. “Where is the thief?”

Ryou looked up. Malik was taller than him, and heavier, but then again, so were most people. It wouldn’t be enough to scare him.

“Please let go of me,” he said, keeping his voice low and neutral.

Malik put his left hand on Ryou’s shoulder, digging his fingers into his skin until the pressure was unbearable.

“I know you’re hiding him,” he said. “I know you can summon him.”

By this time Ryou, reaching blindly behind him, had managed to get a hand around the neck of one of the glass bottles in the refrigerator door. He didn’t bother to answer Malik, just braced his shoulders against the freezer as he swung his arm.

Malik leaned back in surprise, lifting one arm to shield the incoming blow. 

None came. Ryou had snapped his arm backward. Liquid and glass sprayed the back of his leg as the bottle shattered against a shelf. Before Malik had time to retaliate, he jammed the broken end of the bottle against Malik’s stomach, just under the ribcage. 

Ryou raised his chin. “I told you,” he said evenly. “He’s gone. Now let go.”

Malik stared down, shook his head, as if in surprise, but he did not release Ryou. Instead, he grasped the bottle, fingers closing around the shattered edge, grinding it into his body. He squeezed, shards of black glass trickling through his fingers onto the floor between them. 

He looked back up at Ryou, eyes wide, his breath strained, and grinned. 

In a rush of clarity, Ryou realized the magnitude of his error. 

He was used to the Spirit of the Ring, who preferred coercion over force, who had a vested interest in keeping Ryou’s body intact. He was used to petty bullies, thugs who lost interest as soon as they realized that Ryou was no easy target. He had not anticipated this twist in Malik’s personality, one who had no regard for life — and no aversion to pain. 

Malik began to laugh. 

It was a guttural sound, an unhinged, half asthmatic rumble that came from somewhere deep within his throat.

Slowly, Malik loosed his grip, pieces of broken glass clattering to the floor as he straightened. He let go of Ryou’s shirt and patted his shoulder, the gesture oddly paternal. 

“Very good,” he said. He looked Ryou over. It was a reappraisal Ryou was used to. Most people found their first impression of him lacking. But Ryou wasn’t used to the reverse, to studying his enemies from new angles.

He hadn’t expected the laughter, which was unsettling only because it had surprised him, and because, despite the strangeness of it all, Malik was smiling. He was genuinely delighted. 

And Ryou found that he couldn’t help grinning back. It had been a long time since he’d been face to face with fear. Now that he was here, all he could think was how familiar, how natural it felt to be afraid. How good it felt to stare it down.

Malik turned to go. 

Ryou watched him walk to the door, baffled. When he realized that Malik meant to leave the apartment entirely, he scrambled forward.

“Wait,” he said.

Malik paused, looked back.

Ryou felt liquid soaking into his socks and looked down, assessing the remains of what he now realized had been a bottle of soy sauce.

He stopped himself, in an effort to avoid stepping in glass, and gestured: at the blood dripping from Malik’s fingers, and at the blood soaking into his shirt. 

“You’re hurt,” Ryou said. “Let’s at least stop the bleeding.” Even injured, he suspected Malik was capable of wreaking damage across the city. Better to keep him contained while Ryou decided what to do.

Malik found this suggestion amusing. He raised his hand and examined the lacerations. Casually picking a shard of glass out of his palm, he flicked it toward Ryou, who resisted the urge to flinch as it skittered across the floor toward him.

“It will stop on its own,” Malik said. “Blood is nothing. If the thief is gone from this place, you are useless to me.”

Ryou bit back a smile. A reversion to the old order of things. _This_ attitude, at least, he was familiar with. 

“You’re right,” he said. “You might not bleed out. But still—if you don’t clean that properly, it’s going to get infected.”

Malik looked skeptical. Ryou thought quickly and added, “I mean, I’m sure you wouldn’t want to die of sepsis so soon after getting control of your body back.”

Eyebrows furrowing, Malik narrowed his eyes to thin slits. He looked at Ryou, at the blood on his hands. Back at Ryou.

“I don’t know how deep that wound is,” Ryou said. “But if any internal organs—“

“It’s not that deep!” Malik snapped. He returned to the kitchen. Standing awkwardly beside Ryou’s small excuse for a table, he held his hand slightly away from his body, fixing Ryou with a sour glare. 

Ryou stared back. So it had been that easy.

The industrious purr of the churning hotpot brought him back to his senses. He gestured at the floor, at the congealing mess of soy sauce, blood, and broken glass.

“Don’t move,” he said. “Let me get this cleaned up.”

Carefully, he stepped across the floor and found the broom head under the sink. He swept up most of the glass, using an old rag to wipe up the rest. Unfortunately, his entire apartment would smell for days, but Ryou considered it one of the better possible outcomes. They had both survived. So far.

He poured some hot water into a bowl, and then then he cajoled Malik out of his shirt and dumped it in the sink — no time to go down to the laundromat. He ducked into the bathroom, where he retrieved a well-used first aid kit and an old, clean washcloth, the latter of which he placed in the bowl of water to soak. 

As he moved around the apartment, Ryou maintained a constant awareness of Malik — his expressionless face, his intense gaze. It forced Ryou to maneuver the cramped space carefully, wary of the unpredictable reaction a brush of skin could create.

He returned to the kitchen and sat in the sole chair. He reached across the table, tested the temperature of the water with his fingers, glanced up at Malik, and hesitated. 

He was in uncharted territory. In the past he had always been treating wounds on his own body. How would Malik react to being touched? He hadn’t known Malik that well to begin with, but he didn’t strike Ryou as a touchy-feely kind of person.

Ryou took a breath. Kid gloves, he told himself. 

Malik stood still, expectant, blood shining in bright streaks as it slipped down his skin and soaked into his jeans. 

Ryou didn’t have time to bandy about with insecurity. He waved Malik over, had him stand in front of him and proceeded carefully, gingerly going over the skin, dabbing at the excess blood, looking for loose glass. There wasn’t much. The bottle had broken cleanly, to Ryou’s relief, and the damage was all superficial. Malik might not even end up with a scar.

It bothered him more that Malik said nothing. He stood completely still, without any semblance of self-consciousness as he watched Ryou work. The lack of reaction was so unnerving that Ryou kept glancing up, just to make sure everything was okay.

The fourth time he did this, he found Malik frowning down at him.

“What?”

The question was gruff. But not quite threatening.

He flushed and busied himself with wringing out the washcloth. “I just want to make sure I’m not hurting you,” he said.

Malik snorted, a sound of such elegant derision that Ryou understood completely the message it conveyed:

He was stupid to think that he could hurt Malik. He was stupid to care if he did. 

“People used to fear me,” Malik said. “Are you different?”

Musing? Or testing the waters? Ryou nodded politely, aware that he was treading on dangerous ground. “I could just be better at hiding it.” He leaned back in his chair to reach for the hydrogen peroxide. “Do you prefer it? Fear?”

Fear was a useful tool, he knew. The Spirit of the Ring had employed it frequently. Ryou relied on it himself, from time to time.

Another rumble of laughter. “We will see,” Malik said. “You are interesting.”

Ryou nodded. The Spirit of the Ring had thought so, too.

“To be honest,” he said, soaking the washcloth with the peroxide. “I don’t really remember you. That probably helps.”

Malik might have had a response to that, but as Ryou applied the peroxide to his skin, Malik’s words melted into little more than a hiss and a reflexive jerk back.

Ryou pulled the washcloth away. “Sorry! I should have warned—”

Malik cut him off by clenching Ryou’s hand and pulling it back against the wound. He sucked air through his teeth and laughed.

“No,” he said. 

They were trapped in that moment, the two of them frozen in place. Seconds ticked by, and Malik exhaled slowly, his jaw clenched. He didn’t let go of Ryou’s hand, even when Ryou tried to pull away. 

Watching him carefully, Ryou slowed his breath to match Malik’s. They took one breath, and then another. Malik’s grip was strong, but with every exhale he relaxed, increment by increment. 

The moment he could safely pull his hand away, Ryou leaned back and clenched his fists, his heart pounding with adrenaline. He needed to proceed with more caution. He didn’t know Malik. He didn’t know his triggers. Didn’t know how to treat him, except with basic respect.

When he began again, he did so more gently. He warned Malik ahead of time about the peroxide, and asked him to stay still while he applied it. 

Malik indifferently obeyed Ryou’s directions. He took a breath at every initial sting, and his fingers twitched, but he stayed motionless until Ryou was satisfied that the wound was clean.

When he finished with Malik’s torso, he moved on to his hand. This would be the more time consuming job. There were small shards of glass still embedded in Malik’s skin, nearly invisible under the congealing blood. Ryou poured out the bowl and refilled it with warm, clean water and sat it on the edge of the table. He had Malik submerge his hand in the water and washed the broken skin gently, lifting it out of the water periodically to check for pieces of glass he may have missed.

When he proceeded to cotton swabs and tweezer, Ryou found himself grateful that Malik had yet to show any sign of impatience. If anything, he seemed mildly interested in what Ryou was doing: his head was bent slightly to one side as he leaned over the table, watching Ryou with a quiet, unnerving intensity.

To dilute Malik’s attention, Ryou began to ask him questions. They were innocuous ones designed to tiptoe around danger, and they managed to tease out a few details. The “original” Malik had returned to Japan that morning, presumably to clean out an old Ghoul lair in upper Domino—the details were vague there—and his personality had changed over sometime in the afternoon.

Ryou was reassured by this news, and by the uneasy tone in Malik’s voice. If he was that insecure about the possibility of losing control of his body, it could happen at any time. That gave Ryou some leverage. 

But then again…if Malik’s main personality came back, he would certainly be less forthcoming about his desire to see the Spirit of the Ring again. He might deny knowing anything at all. 

This personality was more forthcoming, and seemed honest. He might be unpredictable, and maybe even dangerous, but they had already brokered an uneasy peace. It was an awkward balancing act, but the current state of affairs was more to Ryou’s benefit. 

Ryou decided to risk forging forward in his interrogation. He approached the subject tangentially, in an attempt to dispel suspicion.

“I think I might remember you, a little,” he said, dabbing antiseptic on Malik’s palms. “Now that I think about it.” 

Ryou waited until Malik grunted vaguely in reply before he continued. 

“Battle City was kind of a blur. But there are flashes, little things. I was unconscious for most of it. I guess some of that was your doing.”

Malik tossed his head proudly, nearly jerking his hand out from Ryou’s grip. “I remember,” he said. “I was looking forward to killing you.”

“The Spirit of the Ring—he stopped you, then.”

“He delayed me.”

Ryou couldn’t help it. He snuck a glance up, lowered his voice. “What’s stopping you now?”

Malik shrugged, a mulish expression crossing his face. “Something changed,” he said, “My other self...changed.”

Changed? Maybe Malik meant his reconciliation to the Pharaoh. Something like that could contribute to a balanced psyche, smooth out the edges of a person’s subconscious—but Ryou was only guessing. He was used to the paranormal, not the psychological. 

There were other possible culprits.

“The Millennium Items tend to do that,” he ventured. “Change people.”

Malik shrugged again. 

Ryou released Malik’s hand and took out a roll of bandage tape, passing it from one hand to the other. “Did it change you? The Rod, I mean.”

Malik looked surprised at the question, as if he’d never considered it.

“Perhaps,” he said. “My other half has kept me…buried for some time. Now, I feel his rage…but it feels different. Wrong.”

 _Wrong?_ Based on Malik's closed expression, Ryou decided that he’d better not ask. 

He took Malik’s hand back and finished the bandage work quickly, giving them both an excuse to end the conversation.

Once finished, he sat back in his chair, rubbing out the ache that had been collecting in the back of his neck. Too much time bent over tables and desks. He really needed to get up and stretch every once in a while. 

Malik examined the bandages closely before grunting with what might be considered approval. “You have done this before.”

Ryou almost laughed. “A few times,” he said. “The Spirit of the Ring liked making messes. Not so much cleaning them up.” He stood up and began to gather the components of the first aid kit together. He glanced at Malik again. “I guess that’s one thing you two have in common.”

“What?”

“You’re not used to being in a body,” Ryou said. “So you don’t know how to take care of one.”

He went into the bathroom to put the first aid kit away, and came back to find Malik watching him, his arms crossed over his bare chest.

Ryou paused, “Did I say something wrong?”

“You are very strange,” Malik said.

There was no explanation, although Ryou waited for one. He shrugged. “I get that a lot.”

His answer seemed to satisfy Malik, who rolled one shoulder with disinterest and then turned his attention to the painted figures on Ryou’s windowsill. The conversation was over as far as he was concerned.

Bemused, Ryou watched.

It was strange. _Malik_ was strange. The Spirit of the Ring could be oblivious, bordering on rude, and Malik seemed the same at first glance. But he was guileless, too, and oddly devoid of self-consciousness in a way the Spirit had never been. The Thief King of legend might have been capable of wandering shirtless around Ryou’s apartment, but he never would have submitted so willingly to first aid, or made his feelings so overt. He might have found Ryou interesting, but if he ever admitted it, it was because it suited his agenda.

Malik said it because he thought it was true. 

He had reached the bed. He turned slightly, the light reflecting off his skin as he bent over to examine a set of volumes on witchcraft. In that light, the scars on his back stood out in sharp relief. 

Faced with an uncomfortable, voyeuristic sensation, Ryou turned his attention back to cleaning up the kitchen. 

The two weren’t comparable at all. The Spirit of the Ring was--always--in control of his faculties. Malik was split into pieces, trapped in his own body. Ryou couldn’t make the mistake of thinking the person he was talking to represented Malik Ishtar in any sense that mattered. 

He took the bowl to the kitchen and ran cold water out of the tap. He might as well take a shot at scrubbing the blood out of Malik’s shirt.

Standing at the sink required him to have his back to the rest of the apartment, so he craned his ears to listen carefully over the sound of the water, making small glances back every few minutes to track Malik’s movement around the apartment.

He almost missed the sound of a drawer being pulled, and it took seconds longer to recognize the sound for what it was. He spun around. 

“Don’t touch that!”

At the bedside table, Malik looked up. Ryou wiped his hands hastily on his jeans as he strode across the room. He snatched the small wooden figurine out of Malik’s fingers.

“This stuff is off limits,” Ryou said, shoving the drawer closed. “It’s private.”

Malik grinned. His expression alarmed Ryou: the anticipation of a predator sighting new prey. Cursing himself for his carelessness, Ryou strode back to the kitchen, aware of Malik’s laughter as he followed.

“You are very fierce, Ring-keeper,” he said. “And very foolish.”

“Maybe,” Ryou said. 

“I could still take it from you.”

Ryou stood in front of the kitchen counter, stiffly lifted his head. “I could still make you leave.”

More laughter. “What makes you think I want to be in this place?”

“Because,” Ryou said. “You haven’t found what you came here for.”

He looked down, at the figurine in his hands. It was the same size and the same style as the figures used in the Memory World game, but this one was unpainted, unfinished. It was the only piece left, because it had never been used. 

This particular figure, an early prototype of the thief king, had been set aside because it was damaged. A deep crack ran through the unvarnished wood, revealing where the grain had split during the carving process. It had been imperfect, and the Spirit had demanded it replaced. 

Ryou ran his thumb over the crack, feeling the divot in the wood, the surface starting to wear smooth after years of similar gestures.

He looked up, into Malik’s eyes.

“The thief,” Malik said. “He is really gone?”

Ryou had never been sure. He’d seen the Millennium Ring buried with the pharaoh’s temple, had heard Atem and Yuugi assure him that it was over, the spirit destroyed. The table had been burnt to cinders, the ashes thrown into the bay. But he’d never been sure.

“The Millennium Items were destroyed,” he said. “You knew that.”

“Yes.”

“So he can’t come back.”

Malik did not challenge the assertion. He narrowed his eyes, studied Ryou. After a moment he nodded and took a folded piece of paper out of his back pocket. He stepped forward, held the paper out.

Uneasily, Ryou passed the wooden figure to his left hand and took the paper. It was slim and worn, and slightly damp: an old note from a sticky pad, the adhesive dusted over and smooth to the touch.

On the front, in a near-illegible scrawl Ryou recognized, was a message:

_Come see me._

He unfolded the paper, turned it over. There was nothing else.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“He wrote that,” Malik said. “Your thief.”

Ryou knew that. He had recognized the handwriting instantly, knew how the spirit wrote: impatiently, the pen barely touching the paper, letters stretching toward the edge of the page. The Spirit hadn’t cared for the written word, rarely wrote anything down. Ryou usually did it for him. Ryou remembered.

Ryou didn’t remember this. He didn’t recognize the paper, where it came from, who it was meant for.

“To you?” he asked, making an effort to retain his composure. “Was it for you?”

Malik pursed his lips, shook his head. “To my other half,” he said. “Once.”

Something tripped inside Ryou, an electric shock of emotion that triggered instant resentment. “So what?” he said. “You finally decided to follow through on it? I told you, he’s not coming back.”

Malik reached forward and snatched the paper out of Ryou’s hands. “Then why,” he snarled. “Am I here? Who am I to kill, if this spirit is dead? What power does he have over us?”

Ryou had no idea. He didn’t know why the Spirit of the Ring would try to contact Malik. He didn’t know why it would matter, or why Malik would care so much he’d lose control and bring back a personality that wasn’t supposed to exist anymore.

“Do you know when it was written?” he asked, putting aside his roiling emotions in favor of a more logical line of questioning.

Malik shrugged.

“Was it during Battle City? Or later?”

“I don’t know,” Malik said, frowning. “I was…weak. There was much turmoil…inside. I do not remember.”

Ryou turned away, stared contemplatively into the sink. He put the figurine in his pocket, kept his fingers wrapped loosely around the warm wood. “The spirit never talked about him,” he said. “The real Malik.”

“I am real.” 

Malik’s voice was quiet, firm. He stood behind Ryou, the two of them frozen for a moment, waiting, perhaps, for first blood.

Ryou had to capitulate first. “I know you are,” he said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why this happened. I didn’t know the spirit had anything to do with — with you — after Battle City.”

Malik was silent, and Ryou shifted his weight. He examined the stained linoleum of the kitchen counter and tried to quell the strange unease he felt. This revelation was bewildering. The spirit had always been secretive, but Ryou would have known of any communications with Malik. He had no lapses in his waking memory, no unexplainable bruised mornings. He had regularly checked his internet history, set up a security camera in his bedroom. He thought he’d been careful. And there had been a trust, of a kind, between them. They were collaborators. It was just the two of them.

That’s what Ryou had thought at the time.

“Why are you looking for him?” he asked. “What would you do, if you found him?”

“Kill him.”

When Ryou turned, Malik wouldn’t meet his eyes. 

Not the truth, then. But perhaps tangential to it. Ryou didn’t know enough to guess.

“Lucky for you, he’s dead already,” he said. “Problem solved.”

“I want to be certain.”

Ryou bit his tongue and turned back to the sink. Submerging his hands deep in the soapy water, he scrubbed at Malik’s shirt with a little more force than was necessary. 

Malik waited, with preternatural patience. 

Ryou tried to focus on the situation. No matter how he felt at the moment, how much fear and hope and betrayal lay all muddled together, the inevitable truth cut through the turmoil: he needed to know more.

He had wanted to leave the past behind. Wasn’t that why he’d moved out, gone to college, put some distance between himself and the years of possession? But here the past had arrived again to taunt him, dangling devastating possibilities. If Malik was here, what other specters might be summoned? _Could_ be summoned?

He pulled the shirt out of the water, examined it closely, but he’d done a good job. The blood was gone.

“Well, your shirt’s going to take a while to dry,” he said. “You might as well stay the night. I still have a few things that belonged to the Spirit. You can look at them. I don’t know if they’ll help.”

A pause. “You’ll help me?”

“If I can,” Ryou glanced at Malik. “So long as you say you’re not going to kill me or anything like that.”

Malik laughed, the sound more pleasant now that Ryou expected it. “Very well,” he said. “I will abide by the rules of hospitality.”

Ryou was amused, encouraged by Malik’s laughter. He hazarded a guess: “What, like don’t kill the host?”

“Take what is offered,” Malik corrected, “Should the host provide a decent welcome.”

Ryou smiled down at the sink.

“You’re in luck, then,” he said. “The spirit always said I was a good host.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Some minor notes:
> 
> 1\. I chose not to give Yami Bakura and Yami Marik their own names for this story, as they don't have other canonical names. Both Yami Malik & Malik are referenced by name Malik Ishtar, though it should usually be clear by context which one is being referenced. Yami Bakura is usually referenced as the Spirit of the Ring, Thief King, or variants thereof.  
> 2\. While the text occasionally refers to the Malik/YMalik relationship as being psychological in nature, he is not intentionally portrayed as having any kind of real-world diagnosis. The language used is based on his depiction in the canon, especially the manga, and future chapters will take additional license with those concepts.  
> 3\. This is a multi-chapter work with 9 chapters currently drafted and 10-11 planned total. I will try to stick to a once monthly update schedule, subject to change as I wrap up the last couple chapters.  
> 4\. I apologize for any formatting errors! I have never used AO3 before and had to slam a bunch of HTML codes in there at the last minute.  
> 5\. Please leave a comment if you enjoyed! I don't have a tumblr or anything like that so fic is my only opportunity to interact with the fandom. In the past my fic has focused more on the Yuugi-tachi side of the fandom, and this is my first foray into the Marik/Bakura side, so I'd love to hear your thoughts.


	2. Chapter 2

2

Clean clothes were the first order of business. Ryou found some clean sweatpants for himself and realized at once that his clothes would not fit Malik, who was significantly broader across the shoulders.

It was a wonder, then, that after an extensive dive into the recesses of his closet, he managed to find a suitable shirt. It was a wrinkled red-and-gray flannel that had once belonged to his father. The shirt emanated the faint musty smell of disuse, but it was larger than everything else he owned, and it was better than letting Malik put a damp shirt back on. He handed the garment off to Malik with perfunctory apologies and busied himself with figuring out dinner.

There were plenty of leftovers, but nothing suitable he could serve to a guest. He’d have to make something.

He started with a pot of rice — an easy filler — and began comparing different takeout containers that he thought might go together. Perhaps he could mix them up and re-fry them in the wok. No soy sauce, but he could get around that. He was fairly adept in the kitchen.

As he began dumping congealed masses of breaded pork and steamed vegetables into the pan, his muddled brain reminded him that the Ishtars were vegetarian.

At least, they had only served vegetarian dishes during that visit to Egypt. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, being preoccupied with the circumstances that had necessitated their visit, but he remembered that Jounouchi, Honda and Yuugi had spent their last day in Egypt visiting stall after stall in the local market, gorging themselves on shawarma, kebabs, and hawawshy. It was a decision that landed Honda in the throes of indigestion the whole flight home, and Ryou could specifically envision Honda moaning something about “this must be why they don’t eat meat.”

He glanced at the hulking figure sitting at his kitchen table. Malik’s other personality might not agree or even care about dietary preferences, but it was safer not to ask. After all, regardless of what he was willing to eat, Malik’s body wouldn’t be accustomed to digesting that kind of protein. It would be better to do without, at least until he could find out how the Ishtars felt about fish.

Painstakingly, he pulled out a pair of chopsticks and removed all the visible pieces of meat from the pan. Those went back into the fridge. Small bonus: as he shuffled some wilting greens aside to make room, he found a package of tofu just within its expiration date. He cut it up and dried it out, all the while mentally cataloguing his assortment of sauces and seasonings.

It was a nice challenge, having to prepare a stir-fry without soy sauce. He was almost enjoying himself.

Almost.

He was acutely aware of Malik’s presence behind him. After they had agreed that Malik would stay, Ryou had pulled out what few things the Spirit of the Ring had left behind.

Stolen objects, mostly, and knick-knacks: small, inconspicuous weapons, scraps of sketches from the memory world game, a pair of loaded dice, a broken floppy disc, a variety of unique coins. Malik had poked through the collection listlessly, but he seemed more interested in watching Ryou cook dinner.

Unfortunately, that meant attending to every movement Ryou made with a relentless, unblinking stare.

Ryou uneasily ignored the attention. Malik moved like a great beast, with slow lethargic motions that belied his true intensity. Ryou might have found him interesting — _did_ find him interesting — but that didn’t negate the danger. Their mutual curiosity about each other was all that kept the current peace.

Ryou turned the burner on. “Will anyone come looking for you here?”

Malik shook his head. “My other self,” he said, “was alone. My siblings will not know where to find him.”

Right. The other Ishtars. Briefly Ryou considered contacting them, but dismissed the idea. He had no way to get in touch, short of calling up Yuugi and asking him for Isis’ number. Not exactly discreet.

The metal burner creaked as it warmed, and Ryou hovered a hand over the wok to gauge the heat. “How did you know where I lived, anyway?”

He’d moved out of his father’s house to be closer to the University of Domino over a year ago. He’d told a few people his new address, but Malik was a few degrees separated from that list.

“I knew.”

“How?”

There was no answer, and when Ryou looked over he saw Malik gazing fixedly at the ceiling, as if he was trying to remember some obscure fact. The collar of his shirt pulled awkwardly around the base of his neck, and Ryou realized that Malik hadn’t aligned the buttons on the flannel correctly when he’d put the shirt on.

As Ryou stood there, wondering if he should say something, Malik shook his head. He looked vexed. “My dominant self must have gotten it from someone.”

“You don’t know?”

Malik’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t pay attention to everything he does.”

Sensitive subject. Ryou dropped that particular line of questioning.

He worked on dinner. He steamed rice and fried vegetables. By the time the meal was finished to his satisfaction, Malik had wandered away, exploring the rest of Ryou’s apartment.

Ryou angled himself as he dished up food, trying to sneak a look. Malik touched things compulsively, it seemed.His fingers wandered over the spines of books, prodded at miniatures, brushed over an old sweatshirt. He poked through drawers and fingered knick knacks with listless disinterest. He stopped on a poster hanging above Ryou’s bed and stared at it for a while, moving his hand thoughtfully over the satin-textured paper. He was still standing there when Ryou told him dinner was ready.

Malik’s expression seemed troubled when he came to the table, but his mood brightened when Ryou placed a steaming bowl of stir-fry down in front of him. He sat down and began eating immediately.

Ryou assumed a place opposite him, resting a hip against the kitchen counter. There was only room for one chair at the table. The arrangement was awkward, but it usually worked for him. He didn’t have many guests.

“What is that?” Malik asked, his mouth full, and gestured at the poster.

Ryou glanced across the room. A malevolent-looking mage in a hooded black cloak stood over a table scattered with candles. A book was in his hand and arcane symbols were superimposed on the air around him, while the text above and below him was emblazoned with the Monster World logo and trademarks.

It was nice quality print, an exclusive that Ryou had bribed off the game store clerk after the latest release event. It had not been cheap.

“Just a poster,” he said. “Why? Does it mean something to you?”

“No.”

“Something about it drew your attention. Maybe it would help to talk about it.”

Malik had started eating in earnest now. “No,” he said.

He certainly was odd. He ate with enthusiasm, but there was something about his manner that was defensive, guarded.

Perhaps he was hiding something. As Ryou mused on this idea, he turned back to the rice. He took the time to set half of what remained aside and mixed it with a light helping of salt. He formed it into loose balls, moving quickly—it was still a little too hot to hold—and put it in the refrigerator to supplement tomorrow’s breakfast. It was sloppy work, but the night was passing quickly and he still had homework to do.

That done, he dished up a plate of food for himself and ate standing at the counter. As he lingered over his meal, he watched Malik, who alternated between glaring sourly back at him and pretending like he didn’t see Ryou at all.

“Is any of that helping?” Ryou asked finally, pointing with his fork at the paraphernalia on the table. Malik frowned at him and held out his empty bowl by way of an answer.

“More.”

Ryou stared at it in surprise. He’d underestimated how much Malik would eat.

“I guess you liked it, then,” he said, refilling the bowl. He’d planned on eating the leftovers for lunch tomorrow, but that was no problem. He could eat out. “Here you go."

Malik took the bowl back and began eating again. He wouldn’t meet Ryou’s eyes. His demeanor was odd — almost defensive.

“Is something wrong?”

“Yes,” Malik said. “Everything is — all wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

Malik seemed frustrated by the question. “I don’t know.”

“Is it something to do with the Spirit—?“

“I SAID I DON’T KNOW!” Malik thrust the half-empty bowl down on the table and stood up, knocking the chair onto the floor as he did so. He and Ryou stared at each other for a moment, and then Malik’s face twisted in a grimace. He laughed shortly, whirled away and stalked to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

The bang of the bathroom door reverberated in Ryou’s ears. After a moment he put his bowl down and went to pick up the chair.

He was poking a caged animal with a stick, and he knew it, but he couldn’t help himself. Malik’s existence, his presence here…it symbolized things Ryou didn’t dare to think about. Wasn’t sure he even _wanted_ to think about.

He glanced at the door again. He needed to be more careful. Malik needed time and space to figure out why he was here, and Ryou needed to observe the facts before he went rushing in with theories. Malik was a person, not a puzzle to be solved. Ryou wouldn’t do either of them any good by prodding.

He finished his dinner and busied himself with preparing a bed on the floor. He pulled the spare futon out of the closet and set it up along the bookshelf beside his bed. He was uneasy about putting the futon so close to where he slept, but his options were limited. Space allowed for only one other option: in front of the door. Faced with a choice between sleeping within arm’s reach of a stranger and blocking his only exit, he had to opt for the former.

He laid a spare set of sheets over the futon, then pulled some spare pillows and blankets off his bed. Not luxurious by any means, but it would be a serviceable place to sleep.

As he arranged a fleece blanket, he heard the bathroom door creak open. Malik watched him from the doorway, his hand still tentatively wrapped around the doorknob.

He’d fixed the buttons on his shirt. Ryou hid his smile and stood up. It was a small thing, but it made him like Malik just a little bit more.

“I hope this is okay with you,” he said. “If you need anything else, you can let me know, all right? I have to work on my homework for a bit."

Malik didn’t respond, and Ryou didn’t press further. He withdrew to his desk, where he settled down for a evening’s work.

It was difficult to refresh one’s self on the structure of phylogenetic trees while ignoring the dangerously quiet person behind you, but he made a stab at it, hunkering down and refusing to turn around to see what Malik was doing.

After a few minutes of silence, Malik begin to move around the apartment again.

It soon became impossible to study. Every step, every quiet tap and click and rustle raised the hair on the back of Ryou’s neck. It was all he could do to hold back a reflexive jerk every time he heard the slide of objects moving across surfaces.

It was laughable, really. He’d thought, for some insane reason, that this would be like old times. He’d thought that he’d have the benefit of company without obligation: the comforting knowledge that if he said something, someone would hear him. He’d thought that he could be alone without really being alone. He’d forgotten that an additional presence was not the same as an additional _body;_ that Malik, with all his body’s various noises and needs, was going to demand physical space in Ryou’s life.

When he heard the closet door open, Ryou finally got up.

“Can I help with whatever you’re doing?” he asked politely, glancing in the open door. “We can talk, if you want.”

Malik ignored him. He was systematically touching all of Ryou’s clothes, running his hands over the coats and sweaters as if looking for something specific.

Ryou watched this strange ritual, puzzled. “Are you cold?”

“No.”

“All right.” Still Ryou hesitated. There was a fine line between being hospitable and intrusive. “Do you need something?”

Malik turned his head, gave Ryou a long, hard look. When he finally looked away again, his expression was uncomfortable, his voice a shade softer. “No.”

“Does this…does it have something to do with—“ Ryou saw Malik’s expression twist and cut off his question, cursing his eagerness. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ll leave you alone.”

He returned to his desk without waiting for a reply and turned on the radio, adjusting the volume so that it was too low to distract but loud enough to drown out the sound of Malik’s maddening need to explore every inch of his apartment.

Eventually Malik returned to the table and began going over the Spirit’s old objects again. When Ryou heard the unmistakable _snick_ of a switchblade being sprung, he resisted the urge to turn around. When the sound became repetitive, he turned the radio up.

After twenty minutes of this, Ryou got up, under the pretense of opening one of cookie packages he’d brought home. He edged into the kitchen and stood beside the fridge, nervously tapping his pen against his wrist as he suggested that perhaps Malik would like to go to bed. “I can turn the lights off,” he added.

“I don’t need to sleep.”

“Okay…” Ryou turned to the plastic package and tore the end open. He grabbed a handful of chocolate covered wafers for himself and held the package out to Malik. “Do you mind leaving that knife alone, at least?” He tried to sound nonchalant. “It makes it hard to concentrate."

Malik took a handful of cookies and said nothing. Ryou put away the package and returned to his reading. He turned the radio up again after he sat down, as a precaution. Either way, he didn’t hear Malik playing with the switchblade again.

It was well past his normal bedtime when he finally called it a night. He frowned at the blinking green _11:07_ on his cell phone and turned to stare mournfully at the dishes he still had to do.

He got up and approached the table where Malik was sitting, his head lowered and his body still. Ryou walked quietly, thinking that Malik was asleep, but as Ryou passed Malik’s eyes lifted, set themselves intently on him.

Ryou noted the switchblade still held loosely in Malik’s hands, and then saw the deep grooves carved into the table. The shapes looked vaguely like letters or sigils, but Ryou didn’t recognize any of them. He paused, blinked, felt the chill running up his spine, acknowledged it quietly, and said nothing.

He did not look at Malik again while he cleaned the kitchen and began turning lights off around the apartment. He went into the bathroom to brush his teeth and found Malik waiting for him when he emerged.

“Oh, did you need to—“ Ryou flushed. “I guess I didn’t offer you anything. I’m sorry. I think I have a spare toothbrush somewhere around here…and here, I’ll show you where the towels and things are—“

Malik silently observed Ryou’s sad attempts at hospitality, but gave no sign of either understanding or appreciating them. Finally, exhausted and impatient, Ryou rubbed his eyes and sighed.

“I have to go to bed,” he said. “I have school in the morning. Are you sure there’s not something you want? Something I can get for you?”

Malik started to open his mouth, and then seemed to think better of it, turning away from Ryou to scratch the back of his neck.

“I do not need anything,” he said quietly.

It was an oddly self-conscious gesture, and Ryou softened.

“Okay,” he said. “Well, just let me know. Good night.”

He edged past Malik to the other side of the room and crawled into bed. He moved casually, as if he didn’t notice how Malik was watching him still, his gaze just as inscrutable and intense. As he reached to turn the light off, he hesitated, but only for a moment.

It wouldn’t do him any good to show fear. The light went off. Under the cover of darkness, Ryou reached up under his pillow and curled his fingers around the handle of a knife.

The utility blade had been sheathed and strapped to the top of the mattress for years now. It was an old habit, one initiated by the Spirit of the Ring. These days, Ryou did it more for sentimentality than as a precaution, but in this moment he was grateful for a bit of steel security.

He heard Malik cross the room, settle down on the futon. The room was quiet. Alert, but sensing no risk, Ryou’s grip on the knife loosened as he listened to Malik’s shallow breathing.

He should have put the futon by the door. If Malik changed his mind about the terms of hospitality, Ryou only had moments to defend himself. But he couldn’t lie awake forever. And he needed to stop acting as if they were enemies. Wasn’t this about helping Malik?

He turned onto his side and faced the wall, forcing himself to lower his own defenses. Everything would be fine.

But no matter how often he told himself he was at ease, some subconscious tension kept him awake. Soon, that tension seemed to leave him, seemed to pervade the room, manifesting in rough whispers in the dark.

Malik had started to talk.

At least, it sounded like talking. Malik’s voice lifted and fell in a rough, rhythmic way, almost trance-like, and while his voice was soft enough Ryou couldn’t make out the words, he was pretty sure it wasn’t Japanese he was hearing. And it seemed to have some sort of meter, some element of a chant or ritual that felt more comforting than threatening.

He listened to the lilting syllables for a long while, started to say something several times, but the words never left his throat. He wasn’t sure if Malik was asleep or awake. He didn’t want to interrupt this…whatever it was. He’d heard worse, after all, and it _was_ kind of like white noise, in a way. As it went on, he relaxed, and the sound became nothing more than background noise.

Eventually he must have drifted off. The next time he opened his eyes, it was to sunlight and the distant clang of a garbage truck. Taking stock of his body and finding himself unharmed, Ryou reached over to turn off the alarm clock. He sat up and carefully leaned over the side of the bed to peer onto the floor.

Malik wasn’t there. Ryou paused, and then heard steady breathing coming from near the door.

As silently as possible, Ryou slipped out of bed and peered around the corner of the TV shelf into the small entry space by the door. He saw Malik’s huddled form pressed against the wall, face buried in his arms. Had he slept there? 

Ryou paused, looked closer, but he couldn’t tell if Malik was awake or not. He retreated to his desk. He had a few minutes before he had to get ready for school. No need to wake Malik yet.

He pulled his cell phone out of the charger and glanced at it. He had a missed call and a voicemail.

He eyed Malik again, but there was no sign of movement. He retreated to the bathroom with the phone and perched on the edge of the bathtub, resting his elbows on his knees as he opened his mailbox. The voicemail was twelve minutes long.

Yuugi. Ryou hadn’t seen him in a while — heard he was out of the country somewhere, some promotional Duel Monsters thing.Smiling, Ryou pressed play and put the phone to his ear.

Yuugi’s voice was chipper, his words meaningless in a pleasant way. It was just a call to catch up, the kind of thing Yuugi would do when he hadn’t heard from someone in a while. Ryou was terrible at both answering calls and returning them, but Yuugi was never bothered by getting shunted to voicemail. He always spoke as if Ryou had actually picked up, as if he was reciting a long letter instead of a reminder to call back.

The voicemail rambled as Yuugi related a few miscellaneous anecdotes—apparently he was somewhere near Seattle — and then the tone of his voice changed, become more thoughtful:

> _It’s been raining a lot here…It’s a strange rain_ — _misty, only ever halfway there. It’s deceptive, that kind of rain. It feels like nothing, but you somehow always end up drenched. Anyway it makes me miss home…This place is nice but my English hasn’t gotten any better and Kaiba keeps trying to talk for me at all the press events._
> 
> _Maybe it’s just the homesickness, but I’ve been thinking about the past a lot. There’s lots of things I miss — obviously— but there’s lots of things I’m glad to leave behind, too. It’s nice to not have to worry about the world ending or someone dying or what might happen if I lose a card game.The worst thing that happens these days is when Kaiba gets in a sulk._
> 
> _I just wish I could have it both ways, you know? Wish I could have Atem here without the sense that something could go wrong at any moment. I wish he felt like he belonged here. I guess he didn’t. And I have to live with that._
> 
> _Sorry, I guess we haven’t talked about this much. I think you’ve been on my mind, too.I know it was so different for you, but there were lots of nights, weren’t there, where no one died, or got hurt? There must have been quiet nights, nights where it was just two people sharing a body…You don’t talk about it, Ryou._
> 
> _Sorry, I’m rambling. Maybe it wasn’t like that. And it’s none of my business. You don’t need to try and call me back. But— if you get the chance—please do call. Like I said, the rain here feels weird and I’ve been on a winning streak, so Kaiba won’t talk to me and no one else here speaks Japanese._
> 
> _Be well, Ryou. As they say here: “see you later!”_

When the call was over, Ryou held the phone loosely in his hands. Yuugi had that annoying way of sensing when you needed someone to talk to. And he _could_ use someone to talk to. Who else would understand something like this?

He hit the call button and leaned forward on the porcelain tub, crossing his fingers and hoping the time zones matched up and that the tiled walls wouldn’t cut off his reception.

The phone rang three times before Yuugi answered, his voice a distant warble through the international lines.

“ _Hi!”_

As if by magic, Ryou felt his shoulders relax. “Hey, Yuugi.”

“ _Ryou_.” Yuugi sounded both pleased and surprised to hear from him so soon. “ _How are things?”_

_“_ Actually, I—“

Ryou saw the bathroom door slowly swing open.

“I, um… you know what, I think I’m going to have to—“

Malik stood in the doorway.

His eyes bore into Ryou’s, his gaze so intense that Ryou lost his nerve, forgot whatever he was going to say next, and snapped his phone shut without prompting.

Malik stepped inside the bathroom. He stood over Ryou, without speaking. He did not wait for Ryou to cower or to resist, simply reached down and plucked the phone out of Ryou’s hand, examining it briefly before turning and slamming it against the shower tiles.

Ryou stood up as pieces of plastic rained down on him. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said, swallowing his irritation. “I could have—“

Malik spun toward him. “ _Do not_ ,” he hissed. “Bring _anyone_ into this.”

“I was just—“

“I don’t care,” Malik dropped the crushed phone and tugged at his own hair in agitation. “No one, no one,” he repeated. “Not the pharaoh’s vessel. Not my sister. Not—not Rishid—not your friends. No one. Please—”

Ryou stared, his growing rash of anger melting away as he realized just how distressed Malik was. He wasn’t angry — he was afraid. He saw Ryou as a potential threat. The fear and the wariness had gone both ways.

“I’m sorry,” Ryou said. “I didn’t realize—“

Malik’s head snapped up. He stared red-eyed back at Ryou.

“I wasn’t going to…he called me first,” Ryou said, feeling like an idiot for explaining himself. “I didn’t mean — I wasn’t going to — I just needed advice.”

Malik was still for a moment, and then his hands dropped, he rubbed the heel of his hand against his eyes, sniffed and stared at the wall.

“He cannot help here,” he said, his voice quiet, curiously devoid of emotion. “Only you.”

Ryou eyed Malik curiously, but Malik evidenced no sign of irony, no indication of falsehood. He truly believed that Ryou could help him.

Despite himself, Ryou reached out, touched Malik’s arm. It was meant to be a comfort, an expression of sympathy and solidarity, but Malik jumped explosively back, his eyes wide, and grimaced as he stumbled against the doorframe and out of the bathroom. He took a few more steps backward, gasping, frantic laughter spilling out of him with each breath.

Ryou felt his heart sink and sighed. He knew better. It would take more than that to get Malik to trust him.

“Look,” he said. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise. And I—I apologize for scaring you.”

Malik leaned over, shook his head, and collected his composure quickly. He swallowed any remaining traces of hysteria and straightened, refusing to look at Ryou. He brushed his hand against his jeans, shedding a few microscopic fragments of broken plastic as he stalled, struggling over his words.

“You didn’t,” Malik murmured, finally, and fled. He crossed the room, opened the front door and stepped outside, leaving the door open behind him.

Clearly he needed some time alone. Ryou bent over the remains of his phone. He picked through the pieces until he found the SIM card and tossed the rest in the garbage. A hassle, but not the end of the world. If he asked, his father would send him the money to buy a new one, no questions asked.

It was a luxury Ryou had earned over the course of his terrible childhood. His father, absent and emotionally stunted, was decent enough to feel bad about it and frequently expressed those feelings with gifts of cash, which Ryou politely accepted. Money wasn’t as comforting as affection, but it was useful.

He left the bathroom. The chill morning air bit through his pajamas as he saw Malik on the balcony outside, his back to Ryou and arms crossed as he looked down into the parking lot.

It was something of a comfort that he hadn’t run off completely. Ryou turned his attention to getting dressed. Then he retrieved Malik’s shirt from the closet where he’d left it to dry and brought it out onto the balcony.

“I have to go to school soon,” he said, holding the garment out gingerly. “So if you need anything else…”

Malik took the shirt and examined it carefully, but Ryou had known what he was doing — the bloodstains were almost invisible. Malik nodded, satisfied, and took off the flannel shirt Ryou had lent him.

Ryou caught a glimpse of the bandages on Malik’s torso and lunged forward without thinking. “You’re bleeding.”

Malik paused, his arms halfway through his sleeves. “…Yes?”

Ryou’s bangs fell into his eyes as he leaned forward, and he blew them away in exasperation as he peered at the damage. He risked being late to class, but what choice did he have?

“Come inside,” he said. “I need to change these.”

Malik followed him inside. He didn’t seem to have a problem with complying with Ryou’s instructions, especially once Ryou had provided him with a plate of shoddy-looking _onigiri_ and a mug of microwaved miso soup. In the meantime, Ryou changed Malik’s bandages and checked the lacerations on Malik’s hands, though those seemed to be healing fine without further intervention.

Despite his best efforts at speed, Ryou could see that lateness was becoming more and more likely.

“I’ve really got to get going,” he said. “Are you—“

Malik shrugged, his mouth full. “I’ll stay here.”

Ryou glanced around the apartment, at the carvings on the table, the scattered remains of the first aid kit, the faint smell of soy sauce that still lingered in the air. “That’s not going to happen,” he said. “I said you can stay. And I think you should. But you can’t stay here by yourself.”

Malik’s expression darkened. Obviously he disagreed. But leaving him unsupervised wouldn’t do. Malik needed a distraction, something to think about besides the Spirit of the Ring, which only seemed to cause him distress.

“Come to school with me,” Ryou said impulsively. “Just to get out of the house.”

“I want to stay.”

“That’s not an option.”

An irritated look crossed Malik’s face. His jaw tightened. He glowered. Despite himself, Ryou felt a flash of amusement. He was familiar with this game. The Spirit of the Ring had played it often: _how firm were the host’s boundaries, and how much would he give before he broke_? Ryou had mastered the game over the years, but Malik was a new opponent, and untested. He clearly didn’t react well to flat denial, so Ryou tried a different tack:

“How can I let you stay,” Ryou asked. “When you destroy my stuff every chance you get?”

Malik recoiled, a defense uncoiling on his lips, and then Ryou pointed at the table beside them.The carved sigils from the night before stood out in stark relief under the fluorescent kitchen light.

“I had to pay for this furniture, you know,” Ryou said. The table was a hand-me-down from a colleague of his father’s, but Malik didn’t need to know that. “I don’t have the money to feed you and replace my phone and fix everything you break just because you don’t like something.”

Malik’s frown deepened as he looked from Ryou’s face to the table, but to Ryou’s surprise, he didn’t protest the point.

“I see,” Malik said. “I will not harm your personal belongings.”

He thought for another moment, and then shrugged one shoulder, as if making up his mind about something. “And I will compensate you for the destroyed items.”

Ryou wasn’t going to get a better deal than that. He softened his approach, smiled. “Thank you,” he said. “But I’d like you to come to school with me anyway.”

He saw Malik recoil, and hastened to further his point. “I don’t want you to be alone here,” he said. “Someone could show up. Or you might get bored.” Not that the alternative was any more exciting, but better the ultimate boredom of a university campus than a room full of distasteful memories.

Malik still looked unsure. Ryou had a sudden intuition, and leapt on it.

“Besides…” he added, leaning in, whispering, as if they were co-conspirators. “Your other half doesn’t want you here, right? Wouldn’t it be better, safer, if you stayed close to me in case he tries to take back control?”

It was an argument based on conjecture, but it seemed effective. Malik twisted his mouth, thought the point through, and nodded.

“Very well,” he said. “Then I will go with you.”

They set off immediately. The day was grim, like most of the days that had preceded it this month, but there was no rain, which Ryou was glad of. He didn’t have a coat for Malik, who had arrived without one, and he wasn’t excited about the prospect of trying to share an umbrella.

They made it to the train station without much conversation, both of them content to mull over their own thoughts, but as they stood on the platform waiting for the train to arrive, Malik rolled his shoulders and said, with some discomfort: “Why do you think that my other self does not want me here?”

Ryou shoved his hands into his pockets. “He’d have come here himself, if it was important to him,” he said. “But he stayed away. Maybe he doesn’t want to think about the past. Maybe he doesn’t want to deal with whatever unfinished business he had. Maybe he hates me.”

“He doesn’t…he doesn’t hate you.”

Ryou was surprised Malik felt the need to assert this particular point. He leaned around the woman in front of him and peered down the line. He kept his tone neutral. “Doesn’t he?”

Now Malik seemed unsure. He hesitated, shuffling his feet. “He would not…have any reason to.”

“People don’t always need a reason.”

Malik might have had a reason. Maybe it was a good one. Ryou could imagine several possibilities.

In the past, he’d had screwed up his courage a few times in attempts to reach out. It had never led anywhere. Malik had been polite enough, but he’d always seemed distant. He’d reciprocated to courteous inquiries with strange tendrils of emotion, inappropriate reactions and long periods of silence. Before, Ryou had dismissed it as awkwardness.

Looking back at all those old emails, it felt more like a forced friendship, initiated because of a common past neither of them was brave enough to bring up. Perhaps Malik had resented Ryou’s attempts to reach out. Resentment, Ryou found, often had an attractive quality. It tended to wind people up in each other’s lives when they might have otherwise stayed apart. Wasn’t Malik here now, in a sense?

Ryou looked a little more closely at his companion. Malik’s hesitation wasn’t because of a lack of justification. He was guessing, same as Ryou. “You don’t know what your other half thinks?”

“I…” Malik was suddenly recalcitrant. “He is complicated.”

“You think so?”

“Yes.” It was a definitive answer, and Malik glared at Ryou, daring him to question it — or to make light of it.

Ryou demurred instead. “Some people are like that,” he said. He felt the grim shudder of the approaching train. Above them loomed the concave walls of the tunnel, the warning lights blinking red, perfectly parallel. He thought carefully. The relationship between Malik and his other personality was nothing like Ryou’s experience with the Spirit of the Ring. The two Maliks _were_ the same person, to some extent — but it seemed that they, too, could keep secrets from each other.

“I thought you knew everything he knew,” he confessed.

Malik huffed, perhaps in commiseration, and Ryou considered the matter closed. The train arrived, the crowds shifted and pressed and held their breath as they stood too close for too long. The train moved, and stopped, and moved again, and stopped, and by the time they’d arrived at their departure point Ryou had dismissed the conversation completely.

It wasn’t until they were on the street again, out of the mess of people, that Malik said, abruptly: “I know the things he does not want to know.”

Ryou digested Malik’s statement, backtracking rapidly through the last few minutes of silence. Had Malik been thinking about it that entire train ride?

“You’re pretty thoughtful, aren’t you?” he said, taking his hands out of his pockets to push his hair behind his ears. The wind was picking up again. No doubt it’d be another miserable day.

Malik grunted vaguely, but there was a note of confusion in his voice, and Ryou clarified: “You think before you talk.”

As they proceeded down the sidewalk, dodging other pedestrians, Ryou could feel Malik peering at him. When Ryou looked back, Malik’s expression was suspicious and accusatorial, but Ryou smiled encouragingly.

“Most people consider that a good quality.”

That seemed to placate Malik, who shook his head. “I am not used to this…kind of conversation.” His eyes narrowed, his eyes fixed on the sidewalk in front of his feet. “…And you ask difficult things.”

“Do I?”

“Yes.” They stopped at a crosswalk, and Ryou, turning toward Malik, saw the stern, impassive facade fade. He had that same helpless expression he’d worn last night, when Ryou had asked him if he needed something.

“‘ _Why are you doing this_?’” Malik quoted, his voice flat. “‘ _Who are you?_ ’” He glanced back at Ryou. “That is what people say to me. Those are the questions I know how to answer.”

They crossed the street and entered the campus. Ryou directed them onto a wide paved path. It was still fairly early, and though the path was heavily trafficked by students, most of them were drowsy with sleep and miserable with the cold, hunched over warm drinks and textbooks and buried in scarves and coats. They parted around Ryou and Malik wordlessly, without eye contact or greetings.

A brisk wind whipped through the causeway, and Ryou pulled his jacket closer, glancing at Malik with some concern. He’d shown no sign of recognizing the cold, just as he’d seemed indifferent to the rain yesterday.

In the distance, Ryou saw the humanities building rear up, but he veered left, toward a pathway lined with trees. “So,” he said. “Who are you?”

Malik made a sound in the back of his throat that might have been laughter, then frowned. He cleared his throat and grumbled something under his breath.

When Ryou glanced at him, raising his eyebrows in patient encouragement, Malik shook himself, raising his shoulders defensively.

“You ask it with a different meaning.”

“It’s the same question,” Ryou said.

“No, it isn’t.”

Ryou laughed and stopped in his tracks. “In here,” he said, gesturing with a nod at the four story building up the walkway. “I can’t bring you to class with me, so I thought you could wait here.”

It wasn’t strictly true, but Ryou didn’t want to explain that he doubted Malik’s ability to sit unobtrusively in a classroom for any extended period of time.

Malik looked at the building. In the front was a large granite sign reading _Watanabe Memorial Library_. He looked back at Ryou. The expression on his face was eloquent.

“It’s one hour,” Ryou said. “Then I have a two-hour break.”

Malik did not move.

“It’ll be warm in there,” Ryou added. “And there are computers and books. You’ll be fine. Just be quiet and don’t bother anyone.”

Malik’s face was awash with pure distaste. Ryou swallowed his laughter and met Malik’s gaze squarely, refusing to give until Malik shrugged listlessly.

“I’ll be back,” Ryou said, taking that as affirmation, and set off the way they’d come. At the junction of the sidewalk he glanced back and saw Malik, still standing motionless in front of the library.

Well, he couldn’t do anything about Malik entering the building. Maybe it was just as well. Ryou wasn’t sure he trusted Malik to behave himself in a library, and even less sure the librarians on staff were equipped to deal with him should he decide to be…difficult.

Only time would tell. Ryou resumed the walk down the promenade, feeling a strange giddy feeling of anticipation welling up in his chest. He laughed, finally, releasing the tension that had been building up all morning, reveling in it. Things might go sideways, but he didn’t really care.

He was actually looking _forward_ to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Made it to chapter 2! A lot has changed in the last month but I'm still chugging away at this more or less on schedule. Hopefully all of you are doing okay in these uncertain times.  
> Special thanks to my boyfriend and to my sister for helping me proofread these stories, despite their knowledge of Yugioh canon being limited to the Abridged series and the dumb memes I send them when I drink too much.  
> Next time: the duo go shopping and Malik takes a math class. (I promise this is a serious story.)


	3. Chapter 3

3

“Zeami defined Noh as the embodiment of _y_ _ū_ _gen,”_ The professor said. “That is, refined elegance. That which is beyond words.”

Ryou was only half listening. They’d already spent two weeks on Noh drama and his initial interest in the subject had started to become oversaturated with information.

Normally, he’d be more attentive, but there was no need to make a pretense of it today. Here, in his strategically chosen seat (second to last row, near the wall) he was far out of the professor’s line of sight. He doodled in the margins of his notebook instead of taking notes on aesthetic theory. His mind kept drifting, his thoughts always returning to Malik Ishtar.

He’d had a peculiar feeling ever since he’d left Malik at the library. It was a vague sense that he was being watched, that someone wanted something of him. It reminded him of the feeling he used to get before the Spirit of the Ring exerted his power: that creeping pull toward the abyss, the thrilling chill up the spine, an unnerving warmth in his palms.

The professor’s voice lulled on. The two girls in front of him were looking at each other’s phones and whispering, a faint giggle escaping one or the other every few minutes. Ryou sketched out an eye: the pen sliding smoothly over the eyelid, then the iris.

Had Malik understood yet what he was looking for? Could he even find it, with the Spirit of the Ring gone? What would happen if he couldn’t get resolution? Would his other self be trapped forever?

It didn’t seem likely. Malik’s family had been able to keep him under control in the past, and back in Battle City Atem had been able to help Malik regain control of his body, even after the cause seemed lost. Malik would be okay. Probably.

Ryou wished he could talk to Yuugi. His own memories from Battle City were hazy at best. The times he wasn’t in a coma he was possessed, and the Spirit was loath to share memories. The things Ryou saw on television afterward were divorced from the flashes of nightmares he did remember: ghouls emerging from the night, the Spirit’s laughing curses, dreams of wide open deserts.

Ryou drew more eyes. Yuugi remembered. He would know what was best—

He’d had never been able to talk to Yuugi about what had happened. How could he? Their experiences were so different, the feelings involved so complicated...it was easier to say that he was glad it was over and move on.

Yuugi would have listened. Ryou had always known that. But he’d always told himself that Yuugi wouldn’t understand. In a way, it was easier to believe that no one could.

But he understood Malik. Maybe it was selfish, but that feeling of understanding, of knowing that there was someone out there who might understand _him_ , made Ryou want to keep Malik’s presence a secret for now. Whatever help Malik was looking for, Ryou could offer it.

It wouldn’t be the fastest route, and maybe it left the other Malik trapped in his body for a little while longer, but Ryou wanted to believe that by taking things slow, by earning Malik’s trust, he could do more good than by asking someone else to step in and get the “right” personality back in charge.

Besides, he’d promised not to get anyone involved. He had recognized Malik’s emotions, and had connected with him, on some level. The two of them were the only ones that really knew the Spirit of the Ring as anything other than an enemy. That had to count for something.

A hand appeared in front of his face. He sat up, startled, and self-consciously pushed an arm out to cover his notebook.

The lecture was over. The girl who’d been sitting in front of him was standing now. She’d been waving to get his attention.

When their eyes met, she grinned. “You okay?”

Her name was Natsuko. She was a drama major with warm dark eyes and a penchant for gel pens. That was all Ryou knew about her.

He hadn’t made much of an effort to make friends once he entered college. Maybe it was habit, after all those years where friendship was an impossibility. Or maybe he’d just given up on the concept. Certainly he didn’t make himself approachable. He didn’t think he needed more friends. Yuugi and the rest of the gang lived on the other side of the city now, but they were still there. Having a group to play Monster World with a couple times a month was enough.

“I’m fine,” he said, finally, and flashed her his best please-leave-me-alone smile. The rest of the class was trickling out the door behind him. He caught a glimpse of Natsuko’s friend standing a few tables over, obviously waiting for her to be done. Great. He’d thought he’d left the painfully protracted conversations about his love life back at Domino High.

“Had a late night,” he added, closing his notebook. Time to get out of there. He stood up and began packing up his things.

His mind was on the library already, wondering what might have happened in his absence. He didn’t realize Natsuko was still standing there until he was shrugging on his coat. He paused, the collar bunched up around his shoulders. “Oh, um…yes…?”

Her smile was apologetic. She knew he wanted to leave. “Just wanted to make sure you were okay. Seems like you have something on your mind.”

He sensed himself getting irritated and smiled, hoping to soften the edges of his words. “Yes, well…” Not exactly her business, but it gave him an opportunity to flesh out his excuse. “An old friend stopped by last night and we ended up staying up late, you know…”

“Oh.” She seemed pleased. Maybe she was relieved to hear he actually had friends. “Sounds fun.”

Hoping that the conversation was over, Ryou made a beeline for the door. To his dismay, Natsuko followed him, her friend trailing behind by a few feet.

“You always seemed interested in the lectures before,” she said, as if this was an explanation for her sudden concern. “You like Noh?”

“I guess.”

“Do you like Western theater too?”

Where was she going with this? “Sometimes.”

“The drama club is doing Shakespeare this weekend,” she said. “ _Romeo and Juliet_. The Takarazuka version. Professor Ueda made an announcement a few weeks ago.”

Ryou had to admit that he did have a vague memory of the professor mentioning a performance. And he had seen flyers to the same effect posted up around the school.

“I’m Mercutio,” she said proudly. And then, in a rush: “You should come see it! We still have lots of seats. Bring your friend, even. I promise it’ll be fun.”

She was just plugging her event? Ryou was relieved, even a little grateful. It had been a long time since someone had gone to the trouble to directly invite him to something. “Maybe I will,” he said. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“I’ll get you tickets,” she said, beaming, and peeled away to rejoin her friend. Ryou tried not to laugh as he walked away. He didn’t know what about him had screamed _theatre_ _enthusiast_ to her, but he preferred this kind of ambush to one that involved an awkward confession.

Still, what a bizarre sales campaign. Was she doing this to everybody? Ticket sales must be lower than usual.

He saw the library building rise up in front of him and quickened his pace, ducking through the smattering rain to the other end of campus. He slowed when he saw Malik standing outside the library. In the exact same place Ryou had left him.

Uh-oh.

Ryou approached cautiously. Malik hadn’t been standing there all morning. He’d be drenched if he had. Only his hair and shoulders were wet. Rivulets of rain dripped down the sleeves of his t-shirt along his arms, which were crossed firmly over his chest as he glared at the facade of the library building. There was a hint of petulance in his expression, an immaturity that might have been amusing if Ryou didn’t know what Malik was capable of when he didn’t get his way.

Ryou stopped just out of arm’s reach. “Did you go inside?”

Malik jerked his head toward him. He hadn’t noticed Ryou’s arrival.

He covered his surprise quickly, his mouth screwing back into a scowl. “Yes.”

Ryou waited, but Malik had resumed his angry surveillance of the library doors. Apparently he didn’t think the issue warranted further explanation.

“So why are you out here?”

“I was…asked to leave.”

“Why?”

Malik’s frown intensified. He shrugged.

“Did you…” The possibilities were endless. “... _attack_ somebody?”

Malik scoffed loudly, rolling a shoulder back as he stared stubbornly at the library facade. Hopefully that meant _No_.

Across the walkway, the library doors opened. Malik stiffened as three students came out. When they saw Malik, they immediately leaned toward each other to whisper. One laughed loudly, the other two hissing at him to shut up. They stared openly in Malik’s direction, casting additional curious glances toward Ryou, who calmly ignored them.

“Fools,” Malik muttered darkly.

“Don’t worry about them,” Ryou said, smothering a brief urge to laugh. “They’re no match for you, anyway.”

The other students must have sensed it, too. Whatever had happened had made some sort of impression: they weren’t going to come anywhere near Malik. They’d even gone to the trouble of crossing the lawn instead of coming onto the sidewalk.

“So no one got hurt?” Ryou asked.

“No,” Malik said, sounding very much like he wished the answer was _yes._

Ryou decided not to pry. If no one had gotten hurt, he didn’t need to care. “Sorry that happened,” he said. “I shouldn’t have suggested it. The library is a place people go to study. I should have known you would stand out.”

Malik glared at Ryou. “I spoke to no one.”

“Even if you didn’t--”

“I did nothing!”

Baffled, Ryou watched as Malik, face screwed up and flushed with emotion, turned away from him. This was deeper than a petty annoyance with a few dumb jerks. Was Malik offended? Embarrassed? Either way, Ryou had made a wrong step somewhere.

“Well,” he said, slowly, trying to come up with a diplomatic way to change the subject. “It sounds like you worked hard to avoid creating a scene. I appreciate that.”

No response. Ryou pulled his jacket closer around his shoulders. “We should get out of the rain,” he said, and looked at Malik more keenly. “Aren’t you cold?”

“Yes.”

Another surprise. Malik had been acting indifferent to the weather. Was he just accustomed to suffering in silence? It wasn’t an idea Ryou was comfortable with.

“Well, I’ve got a few hours,” he said. “Let’s find you a change of clothes.”

“I’m fine.”

“You just said you were cold.”

Malik shrugged. “I like it.”

“You’re not acclimated to this weather. You’ll get sick.”

“I said it’s fine.”

Did Ryou want to pick this particular hill to die on? He regarded Malik, who was getting more and more drenched by the second, who was stubborn for obtuse reasons, who would likely stand out here all day to prove a point.

Malik obviously thrived on confrontation. Ryou need to try a less direct method of attack.

He brushed by Malik, striding down the sidewalk as if the conversation was over. He refused to look back. Yesterday, Malik had chosen to stay with Ryou instead of leaving. This morning, he hadn’t wanted to leave Ryou’s apartment. Ryou wasn’t sure yet why that was, but it established a pattern of Malik seeking out a sense of security, of avoiding the unknown. Ryou was gambling that Malik would rather go with Ryou to a new location than stay somewhere strange alone.

Still, the sound of Malik’s quick stride coming up beside him was nerve-racking. For a moment, he wondered if he’d goaded Malik too hard, if he’d made a serious error in judgment, but the steps soon settled into a regular rhythm just behind him. As they meandered off campus grounds and the library disappeared into the trees, he started to relax. Ryou was still mostly operating on intuition and guesswork, but it was nice to know that he was making progress. Perhaps it would be possible to keep his peculiar houseguest in check after all.

When they passed the subway entrance, Malik demanded to know where they were going.

“Shopping.”

“Why? I want to go back to your home.”

“You need a coat. You didn’t have one yesterday.”

“So?“

“You’ll get sick without one.”

“I don’t care about that.”

Ryou shoved his hands into his pockets and quickened his pace. For some reason, Malik’s careless attitude irritated him. “I don’t care if you want to or not. This is what we’re doing.”

“Why? I said that I don’t care—”

“Well, it’s not _your_ body, is it—?!”

They both stopped. Ryou was flushed, surprised at his sudden vitriol and embarrassed by it. Malik stood in the middle of the sidewalk, giving no mind to the pedestrians stepping around them with irritated looks.

“This _is_ my body,” Malik said. His voice was quiet, but it was forceful, too: underlined by the faintest tremor that Ryou might not have noticed if he wasn’t shaking with anger himself.

Malik was only angry because he was afraid. Ryou knew that, but he didn’t know how to appease him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I…what I was trying to say was, it doesn’t seem like you know very much about taking care of yourself. And you have to take care of yourself.”

“Why?”

Ryou could have given him an answer, but he couldn’t have said anything to soften the embittered, hateful look in Malik’s eyes.

He left the question unanswered instead, floating in the air between them. Malik shifted his attention to the street, to the passing cars. They were standing in the middle of the sidewalk, obstructing the flow of traffic. Ryou stepped to the edge of the pathway and after a moment, Malik followed him.

Together, more slowly, they began walking again.

A few blocks up Ryou led them off the main road into a narrow, emptier street. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I wasn’t really…I was worrying about your other self.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Malik’s eyes were on the sidewalk, his features glum. The rain had petered out as they walked, but his hair still hung in wet strings around his face, giving him a bedraggled, hangdog look.

It made Ryou worry, but there was no point in apologizing a third time. He continued to lead the way, Malik following with quiet indifference, for another few blocks until Ryou found the place he was looking for.

“Here we are.”

Malik glanced up at the building in front of them, screwing up his eyes as he attempted to read the faded neon sign in the window. “Used goods?” he said. “What is this?”

“I didn’t know if you had any money,” Ryou said. “I don’t have a lot. Anyway, if you’re not going to be in Japan long, there’s no use investing in something expensive.”

Malik lost interest in the signage. He stepped closer to the window and stared inside at the display of antiques and oddities. There were a couple pre-isolation objects: a stool, a vase, some embroidery _._ Ryou could tell at a glance that they were replicas - garbage meant to draw in whatever tourists got this far off the main thoroughfare — but there _was_ a ceremonial sword he thought he’d like to get a closer look at.

But first things first. He gestured at the door. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of the cold.”

He held the door open for Malik and followed him inside, nodding a cordial greeting to the cashier, a teenage boy who looked to be in high school. Behind the counter, sitting on a stool, an older man was sifting through plastic bags full of costume jewelry.

Ryou skirted past Malik to the back of the store where a couple of racks labeled _Men’s Clothing_ stood beside a shelf of scuffed and dirty shoes. It was a small selection, but he’d been in this store before and had been able to find things of decent quality. He flipped through the hangers quickly, looking for something that would repel rainwater and fit someone with broader shoulders than the average Japanese man.

By the time Malik had made his way to the back of the store, Ryou had found three likely candidates.

“Try these on,” he said, passing them over. He didn’t wait for Malik’s objections or opinions and moved on to shirts. Might as well find something dry for Malik to wear while they were here.

He pulled a few promising-looking sweaters and glanced back. “Do they fit?”

Malik had put on the second coat, a navy blue cotton-lined rain jacket, and was picking curiously at the lining. The coat was on the shabby side, but it was a good brand, and it would be warm.

“This feels good,” he murmured. His mood seemed better, had seemed to lift once they’d arrived at the store. Maybe all he’d needed was a distraction.

Ryou stepped closer, appraising the fit. Shoulders a little tight, as he suspected, but if Malik liked it…it’s not as if it needed to last forever.

“Good enough,” he decided, and held up the sweaters. “How about these?” he said. “You can try them on back there.” He gestured behind Malik, at a tiny fitting booth with a curtain drawn across the entrance.

Malik took the shirts, sifting through them and immediately dropping two onto the floor. He removed the jacket, carefully folding it over his arm and handing it to Ryou. Then he peeled his wet t-shirt off, revealing a neat row of white bandages on one side and a slew of scarred tattoos on the other.

“The dressing room—“ Ryou protested, scandalized, but Malik was already pulling on a black v-neck sweater. 

Ryou snuck a glance at the front of the store. The older man was bent over the jewelry display, paying them no mind, but the teenaged cashier was staring openly. Great.

“I like this,” Malik declared, adjusting the collar of the sweater. Ryou sighed. Forget the shopkeepers. It was only slightly indecent, and Malik wasn’t really doing any harm.

He plucked at Malik’s sleeves. Too short. And too small. In something this tight and revealing, Malik looked too much like his other self. Seeing him in something other than a t-shirt and jeans reminded Ryou that the other Malik was somewhere in there, trapped in his body while they were out here playing dress-up. 

Ryou ignored the faint pang of guilt. “It suits you,” he said. “But let’s try and find something that fits better.”

After a few rounds of this, it became clear that Malik had a clearly defined sense of taste and didn’t need Ryou’s guidance. Ryou browsed nearby for a few minutes, in case he needed to intervene, but Malik seemed to enjoy sifting through the used clothes—he touched and pulled out every shirt, as if he needed to assess each one independently—and soon Ryou felt free to wander toward the front of the store. He wanted to examine that ceremonial sword in the window.

The window display was roped off from the inside, intended for viewing only. Ryou glanced at the shopkeeper, but the old man was on the phone and the teenager was browsing a magazine. Ryou stepped as near as he could and leaned over the display to get a closer look.

The label said late Edo period. The handle was worked leather, neatly braided, with some metal detailing as it met the blade, which was nicely curved and had an appropriate shine, but there were a few nicks. As a whole, the sword was quite worn. There was no sign of the sheath, either.

Ryou straightened, considering. It probably _was_ an antique, but Edo period? He didn’t think so. A sword like that wouldn’t be in a shop like this. But then again…it was in bad condition. Maybe no one else had wanted it.

The Spirit would have known for sure. Ryou had practically grown up in museums, but the Spirit was the one with a knack for spotting forgeries. It had been a real problem when Ryou was younger, particularly when he went out of the country with his father. More than once the Spirit had possessed him just to gleefully tell some poor tourist that their prized Hyksos scarab was actually a 19th century replica.

“What is that?”

Malik had edged up behind him. Ryou took a step back and nodded toward the sword. “Just looking,” he said. “What do you think?”

Malik shifted the small pile of clothing in his arms and eyed the blade. “Dull,” he said eventually. “Can’t cut with that. Bruise, maybe.”

“Yeah, but is it real?”

Malik shrugged. “It won’t work,” he said. “So it’s useless.”

Ryou laughed. Malik’s characteristically pragmatic dismissal was refreshing. He abandoned the sword and took Malik to the cashier’s counter, where he helped him lay the clothes out. Three shirts and a jacket--not a bad haul. He noticed that Malik had only selected name brands, too, even thought they all ranged widely in quality. Perhaps he’d absorbed a sense of taste from his other self.

When the clerk gave them a total, Ryou started to fumble through his pockets, but Malik surprised him by producing a wallet, which he handed to Ryou.

When Ryou opened it, he found it full of banknotes. He stared into the open billfold, baffled. The amount of cash stuffed inside was almost comical. What was Malik planning to do with all of this?

The clerk had got a glimpse inside the wallet, too. His eyebrows were way up.

“He famous or something?”

Malik tilted his head curiously. Ryou counted out the appropriate amount of change and put it down on the counter.

“No,” Ryou said shortly, glad that Malik didn’t find the question worth answering. There was no point drawing further attention to themselves. He folded two of the shirts and handed the third — a nondescript striped crew neck — to Malik along with the jacket. “Put these on,” he said. “No point in walking around in wet clothes.”

The clerk shook his head as Malik promptly began to change. “You guys are weird.”

Ryou ignored the clerk’s comment, but something about it grated at him. He was used to people saying things like that. He’d been the odd one out since he was a kid. So why did he care? Was it because the clerk had lumped them together? Or was he just feeling defensive on Malik’s behalf?

He folded Malik’s wet clothes into a spare plastic bag as they left the store. He didn’t need to interrogate his feelings. The clerk hadn’t meant anything by it. He was overreacting.

Malik interrupted his train of thought. “Where are we going now?”

Ryou checked the time. They’d spent longer in that store than he’d thought. No time for detours. “I have to go to this next class,” he said. “Statistics is after that, but I think it’ll be okay if I skip it today. Do you want to try the library again?”

Dark silence from Malik. Obviously an unacceptable option.

“Is there somewhere else you want to wait? A cafe? A shop? You can’t just stand out in the rain.”

Malik shook his head, dismissing all offers. “Boring,” he said. “I’ll go with you.”

A flash of panic burst within Ryou. “It’s Accounting 201,” he said, reasonably. “The most boring option there is. You’ll have to sit quietly and listen to someone talk about math and money for an hour.”

“But you will be there.”

“Malik—“

“I don’t want to wait,” Malik said. He glanced at Ryou, meaningfully. “I don’t like waiting.”

Point taken. Ryou wasn’t going to win this one without a fight. Briefly, he weighed the possibilities, and then dismissed them. He wasn’t going to muster the energy to mount a credible defense. He’d won enough fights today, and he was tired. “You have to promise not to cause any trouble. Don’t talk to anyone.”

“I understand.”

Ryou sighed and walked a little faster. Somehow, Malik’s reassurance wasn’t convincing.

At least they could always duck out early. If Ryou kept on his toes, the worst-case scenario would only involve the loss of a little social credit or half a letter grade. 

They made it to class a little before the lecture started, which gave Ryou time to inform Professor Sato that he had a friend visiting for the week who didn’t know very much Japanese and wasn’t comfortable waiting by himself.

“No problem,” Sato said, shuffling a stack of handouts as he made a cursory glance across the room at Malik. “But remember we have that test on Tuesday. Your friend will need to stay outside for that.”

“He’ll be gone by then,” Ryou assured him, rushing through a thankful bow.

He returned to Malik and staked out some desks in the back of the room, near the door. It was a smaller classroom, with individual desks scattered in rough rows, and Ryou watched with some trepidation as students started to trickle in.

Malik eyed every person that came in the door. The expression on his face was sour; he glared openly, seeming to relish the surprise and alarm that flickered over every student’s face as they saw him.

Ryou leaned over his desk toward Malik. “Don’t make a scene,” he said. “Just stay quiet and everything should go fine.”

Malik’s head snapped toward Ryou. “Stop worrying,” he said shortly. “I’m not a fool.”

Something had gotten him angry again. Ryou sat back up, stomach churning, and watched Professor Sato queue up a slideshow.

A few more students arrived, giving Malik curious looks as they took their seats, but no one made any comment within Ryou’s range of hearing. As class started and the lecture began, things seemed to settle back into the normal rhythm of things. People took notes or stared out the window or at the front of the room. The alarm of Malik’s initial appearance had faded into the background once he ceased to do anything worth paying attention to.

It was a promising start. Ryou followed suit, keeping an eye on Malik, but Malik only stared stonily at the professor. He was, true to his word, behaving himself.

It was a relief to know that they might still make it through the day unscathed. Maybe Malik had learned his lesson from getting kicked out of the library. Ryou settled into his seat and redirected his focus on the lesson.

Professor Sato had abandoned the problem sets today to expand on a lecture he’d started last class on the differences between capital and revenue expenditures. It was less than riveting, even for the few who cared about such things, but Ryou did his best to be well-mannered and set a good example.

As the lecture went on, however, he realized that something was wrong.

It was subtle. Malik did seem to be making an effort to blend in, but Ryou saw that he was becoming agitated, that his posture had started to stiffen. In increments, Malik sat up, slowly curling his fingers over the edge of the desk. His jaw had begun to clench, muscles jumping in agonized concentration as he continued his impassive observation of the classroom.

Anxiously, Ryou leaned over and prodded Malik’s arm with the end of his pencil. Malik flinched, and Ryou startled back in response, but neither of them made a sound. A few heads from the nearest desks turned toward them, and then away. When Malik’s eyes met his, Ryou tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, trying to inaudibly convey his concern.

Malik frowned, his teeth grinding, and turned back to the lecture, ignoring him. Ryou sat back up, bewildered. Was Malik angry at _him_?

As he puzzled over this thought, Ryou’s attention was drawn to a light, sharp scratching sound. He turned his head and saw Malik’s fingernails dragging against the underside of the desk.

Not a good sign. Ryou leaned over again, raised his eyebrows more insistently as he held his hand out: palm down, fingers spread.

Obediently, Malik loosened his hold on the desk. Then he slumped back in the seat, crossing his arms over his chest as he tossed his head. He huffed, like a horse trying to shake a fly.

Ryou grimaced as two nearby students leaned toward each other and started to whisper. Malik needed a distraction, and badly. After a frantic moment of rummaging through his bookbag, Ryou pulled out his literature notebook and a spare pen. It would do.

Quietly, conscious of the need to avoid drawing attention, he opened the notebook up to an empty page and slid it onto Malik’s desk, placing the pen firmly on top of it.

Malik looked at it for a moment, and then back at Ryou, who held up his own pen and mimed writing with it.

Unimpressed, Malik picked up the pen, examining it briefly before turning his attention to the notebook. Letting the pen dangle loosely from his fingers, he started to turn the pages back.

Ryou sighed and turned back to the projector. It wasn’t what he intended, but if Malik wanted to read Ryou’s notes on the history of Japanese theater he was welcome to do so. Ryou just wanted a few moments to focus on fixed assets and incomes.

That focus evaporated within seconds. When he heard the unmistakable scratch of a pen, Ryou couldn’t resist. He had to look. Keeping his body turned toward the front of the classroom, he tilted his head at the smallest possible angle that let him divert his gaze.

Malik had found Ryou’s doodles of eyes from that morning, and had apparently decided to elaborate on them: darkening the outlines, drawing extensions out of the corners and lashes. He covered what few notes Ryou had with dark, chaotic lines that seemed to form no shape. His style was striking, but childish, the pen pressing hard enough to tear the paper in places, and Ryou watched with morbid fascination as Malik bent over the page with an expression so intense it was almost endearing.

Ryou didn’t interfere. It wasn’t exactly quiet, but it kept Malik occupied.

He split his attention for the rest of the lecture between note-taking and watching Malik’s progress. After a while, Malik seemed to tire of filling in empty space. He started writing instead, in some language Ryou thought at first was Arabic but later revealed itself to be some kind of sloppily-drawn pictographs. Presumably hieroglyphics, though Ryou didn’t know enough about ancient languages to be sure.

When the lecture ended, Malik was so absorbed that he didn’t seem to notice, and Ryou waited until most of the students had filed out to let him know it was time to pack up.

“Wait by the door for me,” he said, and went up to Professor Sato to thank him for his lenience.

“Your friend certainly stands out,” Sato said drily, glancing at the corner where Malik had started to stand up, still peering intently at the notebook. “Where is he from?”

Uneasily, Ryou shifted from one foot to the other. “Cairo.”

“Hm. So far away? How did you two meet?”

“Uh…in a chat room.” It was a flimsy lie, and had the opposite of its intended effect. Sato raised an eyebrow knowingly, regarded Ryou with some new understanding. What was _that_ look?

Ryou beat a hasty retreat, flushing and bowing awkwardly as he mumbled something about getting to his next class. Why was that was the first thing he could think of? He could have just said that they met at a game tournament. _That_ didn’t have implications. It was even true.

“Why do you look like that?” Malik asked as soon as Ryou was back within earshot. “What did he say?”

Ryou focused on ushering Malik out of the classroom, ignoring the burning sensation in his ears. “Nothing,” he said. “We’re done here. Let’s go home.”

That shut Malik up, and he happily followed Ryou out of the building without any follow-up questions. It wasn’t until later, on the train ride home, that he said, thoughtfully, “It wasn’t right.”

Ryou dragged his attention away from the blurred walls of the tunnel. “What?”

Malik was leaning against the window behind him, his arms loosely draped over the notebook. He had yet to relinquish it back to Ryou.

He tilted his head up, toward the fluorescent lights, his hair reflecting off the window behind him like a halo. “Your class.”

Ryou had no idea what he meant by that. “You mean, you couldn’t understand the lecture?”

“Not that…” Malik shook his head. “It felt wrong.”

“Is that why you were angry?”

Malik closed his eyes. “Not angry.” His voice was slurred, almost mournful. “I am never angry anymore.”

Ryou looked past him and out the window, at their images, reflecting out over the moving terrain. Malik still seemed plenty angry to him, but he supposed that compared to Battle City, Malik’s feelings would feel duller, less potent. “You said yesterday that Malik — that your other half — had changed.”

“Yes.”

“And that changed you?”

“I am,” Malik said. “What he needs me to be.”

The train slowed as they reached the next station. Passengers poured off, and new ones filed on. It was the middle of the day still, too early for the rush hour, and this was the last downtown stop. As they pulled away, the car was nearly empty. Ryou took a seat on a newly emptied bench and Malik joined him.

“What does he need you to be?” Ryou asked.

“I don’t know,” Malik said. “It has to do with you.”

“Me?” Ryou said dubiously, “Or the Spirit?”

“What’s the difference?”

Ryou should have expected the disappointment, but the shock of it still stung, and he turned away, fixing his gaze on the other end of the train, where an older man in a suit was slumped back, eyes closed. “We’re not like you,” he said. “We shared a body for a while. But we aren’t the same person.”

Malik grunted vaguely, in a tone that gave no indication as to whether he understood or not. Ryou clutched his bag in his lap, staring at the sleeping businessman. That man was no one special; just another drunk office worker sleeping off a bender in the middle of the work day, but maybe if Ryou stared long enough, he could pretend that he had switched places with that man. Maybe, if he focused, he could make himself believe that he was normal, that this kind of misery was normal, that all he needed was alcohol and solitude and sleep to make it go away.

“You are thinking something.”

Ryou shook his head. He glanced at Malik, forcing some cheer into his expression. He gestured at the notebook in Malik’s lap. “Can you show me what you were writing in there?”

Malik lifted the notebook, handed it to Ryou. Ryou flipped through the pages and found the one with the strange script. He ran his fingers over the words, feeling the indentations the pen had carved into the paper.

“What language is this?” he asked. “Egyptian?”

“Perhaps,” Malik said, offhand.

“You don’t know? Then what is it?”

“Funerary rites.”

Perplexed, Ryou peered closer at the lettering. The lack of explanation was infuriating. “Is it from the Book of the Dead?”

“I am not familiar with that text,” Malik said, thoughtfully. “But perhaps it may be found there.”

“How do you know it, then?”

Malik frowned, crossed his arms. Ryou felt a twinge of guilt. His curiosity had taken precedence over his manners again, but he’d been presented with a new little mystery and he was dying to know how Malik was going to explain it away.

The train slid to a stop again. The doors opened, a few passengers quietly disembarking. They were left alone with the drunk businessman in the corner.

“It was written on the walls,” Malik said, finally. He pointed out the open car doors, into the subway station beyond. “Like that.”

Ryou followed Malik’s gaze, saw the distant scrawl of graffiti on the far tunnel. “Someone wrote it?” he asked. “Where?”

“Underground.”

Ryou looked at the page again, at the deep scores, the torn holes in the paper. Underground? Did Malik mean where he grew up? Ryou got the feeling Malik didn’t quite know himself.

“Can you translate it for me?”

“Why?”

“Because I want to know.”

Malik frowned, but when Ryou held out the notebook Malik eventually extended a hand and took it, sitting up a little as he peered down the bridge of his nose at the words, murmuring some of them under his breath. He began to speak, slowly, pausing in places as he struggled to translate a phrase into Japanese:

> _A road above will be made for him,_
> 
> _so that he may enter the sky._
> 
> _He will go up with the sacred incense,_
> 
> _the king will fly like the bird,_
> 
> _he will alight like the scarab._
> 
> _When he flies like the bird and alights like the scarab,_
> 
> _he will find your seat, in the ship of the Sun._
> 
> _Stand up, make room, you who do not know the river,_
> 
> _that the king may take your seat._
> 
> _He will sail the sky in your Sun ship;_
> 
> _the king will depart in your Sun ship._
> 
> _When you come from the mountain of light,_
> 
> _he, who has no name, will be sailing your Sun ship,_
> 
> _so you may ascend to the sky and leave this land,_
> 
> _away from home._

When Malik read, his voice had a new sound to it, a contemplative tone Ryou hadn’t heard before. Ryou was moved by the words, without really understanding them, and felt an immeasurable weight on his chest as he listened. Maybe it was just the slow way Malik spoke, as he translated it word by word, or the ancient imagery, but it made Ryou think of the memories left by the Millennium Ring: the cold desert nights, the empty sound of wind, the taste of blood.

“What made you write that?” he asked.

Malik didn’t answer. He seemed lost in thought. The flashing tunnel lights raced by in the window behind him, leaving golden imprints of distant stations and the quiet roar of passing trains.

Ryou couldn’t stop thinking about the memories those words had triggered, couldn’t shake the feeling of watching the sun sink into a distant sky from a window just out of reach. “Do you remember anything about him?” he ventured, changing the subject. “The Spirit of the Ring?”

Malik had resumed leaning against the window. His eyes opened and closed, with catlike slowness, as he stared at the ceiling. “He was…not afraid,” he said. “And he was strange. Like you.”

Ryou hadn’t ever had a conversation like this. Not really. Not about the Spirit.

It was a strange feeling. He felt exposed, raw around the edges. He curled his fingers around the edge of his seat and pressed his knees together as Malik continued:

“Much, I do not remember. When he was in control, my other self conspired against me…pushed me away. And then, when I had forced him out, he retreated into your body. He protected those memories from me. Hid them somewhere. But you have not heard them speak either.”

“Not during Battle City,” Ryou said. The Spirit had also pushed him away, shoved him deep inside his soul room where there was nothing but dead earth and the sound of dripping water. “He didn’t like me eavesdropping. And we didn’t see you again until he was gone.”

“No,” Malik said. “There was one time.” He glanced at Ryou, saw his expression, paused. “In Egypt,” he said. “Before he went away. You do not remember?”

There had been an opportunity. Ryou had gone to Cairo with his father a little bit before the Memory World game, a short trip during Golden Week. The Spirit had been particularly active in those months, had been busy plotting that last terrible game. He’d been constantly pestering Ryou with ideas, instructions, observations.

But Ryou had been vigilant. He remembered that trip. He remembered the airport, the tombs, the cool nights and the hot days. He thought he’d accounted for every moment.

“What happened?” he asked.

“They fought.”

“They fought?” Ryou searched his mind again, fruitlessly, for the shape of a memory, but he couldn’t dredge up a single fragment of anything that had to do with Malik Ishtar. “About what?”

“I would not know.”

“But you know they fought?”

“I do not know everything my other half does,” Malik says. “I see things, sometimes, but it is…” He gestured vaguely outwards. “Far away.Sometimes I see what moves him. I can sense those things, even far away. But if he knows I am looking…” He shrugged.

“I could not hear them. I could only feel his heart, his pumping blood. His rage summoned me, but he knew I was there.He did not want me to interfere. He was very strong. I cannot remember what happened.” He was silent for a moment. “We have not had rage like that since.”

They reached the next station. The businessman at the end of the train jerked awake as they shuddered to a stop. He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair as he stood to get off, looking blearily around the station. As he disembarked, a young woman boarded, crossing his path. She regarded Ryou and Malik for a moment, and then walked up the car to go into the next one.

“Do you like it?” Malik asked. “Being free of him?”

Did he _like_ it? Ryou didn’t know how he could possibly answer a question like that. No one, not even Yuugi, had dared to ask him that.

“Why are you asking?” he said. “Do _you_ want to be free of your other half?”

Malik tilted his head. “I cannot,” he said. “I can crush him. I can bury him. I cannot be rid of him. We are one.” He eyed Ryou. “But you said you were two.”

Ryou studied the metal plating of the train floor, pretended to consider the question. The truth was, he’d already spent every long silent night of the last few years considering it. He was sick of that question, and he was afraid of the answer.

But Malik kept waiting.

“I did want to be free of him,” Ryou said. “I really did. And then I was. And now I…I keep trying, but I…I don’t know…” He blinked down at the floor, forced the words out of his throat: “I’ve never been able to get used to it.”

He sat still, avoiding Malik’s curious gaze. But Malik did not ask whatever question was tugging at him, and as the train pulled away from the station and began to accelerate, Malik did not look away. They sat in silence, the sway of the car on the rails their only substitute for conversation as Ryou stared at his feet and Malik, without moving, watched him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Thank you for bearing with me! This came out about three weeks later than I wanted to publish it, but I'm still struggling to get a feel for how long it takes me to edit a given chapter. I feel like I'm getting a little more disciplined through this process so maybe by the time we get to the end (it's looking like 12 chapters right now) I'll have improved my speed. 
> 
> The text Malik reads from is a bastardized and heavily edited "translation" of a portion of the Book of the Dead. Citation below for those who are interested. 
> 
> Next up: Movie night! Some old friends make an appearance. Hoping to get this one out sometime in the middle of June.
> 
> Book of the Dead Excerpt: Recitation 174, Crossing the Akhet, The Pyramid texts // “Spells for Passing through the Akhet" (Antechamber, West-South Walls), carved on the walls of the pyramids of Saqqara.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW for this chapter: some slight body horror/self harm. Nothing serious, mostly descriptions of events in a horror film and some blood. And I guess spoilers for a 1980s horror film if you care about that? (You'll know which one.)

4.

Ryou was slowly going insane.

It had been a quiet evening. When they’d arrived back at the apartment, Malik had resumed his careful inspection of Ryou’s belongings. He’d wandered from object to object, spreading a gloomy aura throughout the room as he searched for something Ryou was sure he’d never find.

Nothing could induce him to open up. Ryou broached questions, but Malik offered nothing but one-word replies, if he replied at all. He was more interested in the contents of Ryou’s kitchen cabinets than in casual conversation.

It was maddening. How could Malik offer up tantalizing new bits of information — and then shut down completely?

Ryou tried not to take it personally. After all, he couldn’t expect Malik to suddenly manifest a sense of self-awareness. Malik couldn’t talk right now, and Ryou would have to accept that, but knowing it didn’t do much to assuage his curiosity. The questions that rattled around his brain weren’t going anywhere.

He tried to distract himself. He made a poor pretense at studying and cleaned the kitchen. He even attempted a hard reset, announcing that they needed to make an urgent trip to the corner store for groceries, but he was disappointed yet again. Malik drifted aimlessly through the aisles behind him, indifferent to the influx of colors and images assaulting them on all sides.

Flummoxed, Ryou browsed the shelves for groceries he didn’t need and tried to think of new conversation starters. Malik’s answers were limited, even about things as banal as his favorite foods, and after having to repeat several questions in a row, Ryou gave up completely. He bought a few packets of mapo tofu and some frozen vegetarian _gyoza_ to flesh out the pantry and called it a day.

Dinner was silent and awkward. Malik cleaned his plate dutifully enough, and even helped Ryou clean up afterward, but he was incapable of maintaining the rhythm of a normal conversation.

There was nothing to do but leave Malik to his own devices. Ryou had had enough of playing the role of responsible caretaker, anyway; _Blade of the Necromancer_ had been calling his name all afternoon. If Malik wanted to ignore Ryou, well, Ryou could ignore him right back.

Working on campaigns required a meticulous set-up; he’d had almost a whole room devoted to the task back at his father’s place, but in his small apartment more creative solutions were called for.

He unpacked the module and spread the lavish encounter maps on the floor around his feet, available to review at a glance with just a swivel of the chair. A selection of manuals were painstakingly arranged around his laptop on the surface of the desk for easy reference. The rest of the supplemental materials were stacked in his lap, an open notebook resting on top.

He read the module page by page, studying the content closely, armed with sticky notes and a chewed-up ballpoint pen, which he used to notate sections he might alter to fit his current campaign or points where he could expand on a character’s arc, jotting down longer notes or a loose sketch in the notebook when a thought occurred to him. The most relevant notes would be typed up later and the rest would be relegated to a folder full of abandoned ideas for future campaigns.

He should have been so engrossed that time lost all meaning. This was his wheelhouse, his go-to hobby, his modus operandi. Yet every detail—every note and statblock and table—was overshadowed by Malik’s silent presence. His attention wandered. The minutes dragged by.

It wasn’t as if Malik, who currently sat cross-legged on the other side of the room, was being particularly obtrusive. Earlier, he’d found the plastic tub under the bed that contained Ryou’s horror movie collection and pulled it out for inspection. Now he was picking over the VHS tapes idly, frowning at the cover art, sporadically pulling out a case for study. He’d glanced in Ryou’s direction a few times, but only as part of a cursory, routine survey of the room. Really, he couldn’t be less distracting if he tried.

For once, Ryou was struggling with silence. He couldn’t stifle the urge to interrogate Malik, to get _some_ kind of dialogue going. He couldn’t stop thinking about that mysterious ritual verse Malik had written in his notebook, about Malik’s strange and gloomy moods, about that conversation on the train—

It wasn’t exactly a surprise that the Spirit of the Ring and Malik Ishtar had had some kind of…correspondence. They had been allies for a fleeting moment, had shared minds and ideas. Maybe they’d even thought of each other as friends.

So why didn’t Ryou know about it? Privacy is limited when you share a body. To keep Ryou in the dark, the Spirit would have had to exert significant effort. But why would he? The Spirit wouldn’t have kept secrets out of spite, or on a whim. He _could_ be spiteful, or whimsical, but he was lazy, too. If he’d made that kind of effort, the outcome must have mattered.

Maybe the Spirit guessed that Ryou would feel betrayed if he found out. Maybe he’d thought that Malik jeopardized the fragile nature of the truce he and Ryou had painstakingly worked out over the years.

Ryou certainly felt betrayed now. He’d thought he’d known everything, had finally stitched all the missing pieces together. And here another missing piece had arrived on his doorstep, claiming to be there for events Ryou couldn’t remember. What else couldn’t he remember? Were there other minutes or hours Ryou didn’t know about? Other conversations, other plans? Did the Spirit of the Ring still have some scheme still waiting to come to fruition, years after he’d been lost?

Malik’s voice speared through his thoughts. “Are you angry?”

Malik’s eyes were fixed on him, head tilted in curiosity. Ryou flushed and twisted in his seat, self-consciously raising a hand to tuck some hair behind an ear. He hadn’t realized he’d been staring.

“Sorry,” he said. “Just thinking.”

Malik nodded, returned his attention at the tape in his hands. Ryou swiveled his chair back and forth, considering. It was the first unprompted thing Malik has said all afternoon. Was this the opening Ryou had been waiting for?

He would have to be careful how he went about it. If Malik felt trapped, he would shut down again.

“I was thinking about what you said on the train,” he admitted. Maybe if he opened up first, Malik would follow suit. “It’s bothering me.”

Malik’s head tilted again; he pursed his lips. “So you _are_ angry?”

“Not angry…troubled, I guess. I don’t know why he wouldn’t want me to know about…you. About that fight they had in Egypt.”

Malik nodded again, and then sighed heavily. He turned a copy of _Jigoku_ over in his hands, picking idly at an old sticker on the side of the box. “I have been thinking also.”

Ryou closed the manual he’d been holding open in his lap. Perhaps too quickly: Malik froze up at the sudden movement, hunched his shoulders.

“Sorry,” Ryou said. His every nerve was on end, but he held his tongue. He needed to give Malik room to talk at his own pace.

He watched him dig a fingernail under the aged price tag and peel the surface away, leaving a white smear across the case. Malik’s hands were sturdy, well-used; Ryou had felt calluses on his palms when he’d bandaged his wounds earlier. His other half must work with his hands somehow; perhaps weightlifting, or something mechanical. They moved slowly, deliberately, the same way he spoke, picking over every word as if they all held the same weight.

“Is this…acceptable?”

Ryou leaned back into the chair and kept his expression relaxed as he drummed his fingers against the manual in his lap. He couldn’t respond too quickly. He’d come off as aggressive, and then the whole conversation would be over.

“Is what acceptable?”

“My…presence.”

“I invited you to stay,” Ryou said, baffled.

Malik shrugged, expressionless. “My other self…” he said. “He can become distressed when one indicates he is…” he paused again, quirking his mouth, looking for the right words: “…not adequate.”

Ryou had no idea how to respond. Malik grunted in frustration, waved a hand dismissively, started over:

“What I mean is…” he paused, and then peered up at Ryou. “I am what he needs me to be,” he said. It was the same thing he’d said on the train. “But…” He turned the VHS tape over and put it on the floor, staring meditatively down at the carpet. “I did not want it to trouble you.”

Puzzled, Ryou studied Malik for a moment. “I’m not troubled,” he said.

“Not even…before?”

Before? Ryou cast back through the day’s events. Remembered the library. The cashier. Professor Sato. “Are you…” he asked slowly, stumbling to the most likely conclusion. “Are you worried that you’re _embarrassing_ me?”

Malik didn’t immediately react; but the furrow between his brows deepened. He seemed to be seriously considering his answer. “My other self and I—we are not…normal,” he said. “I did not wish it to upset you.”

Ryou stared at Malik for a moment, and then turned his chair, trying to look thoughtful as he lifted a hand to his mouth to hide the idiotic grin plastering itself to his face.

 _Upset_? He was _delighted_. Who knew there’d come a day when someone thought they were too weird to hang out with him?

“I am sorry,” Malik said sincerely, and Ryou choked down a laugh.

“It’s okay.” He got a grip on himself and turned the chair back around. “Believe me,” he said. “You don’t need to worry about being normal. Not with me.” He smiled at Malik. “I’m sorry if I seemed upset. I was just worried about you.”

Though Malik’s expression did not change, his eyes seemed to grow warmer, his posture more relaxed. “That is not necessary,” he intoned. “I am in no danger.”

“Nevertheless,” Ryou said. He started to open the manual again, and then changed his mind. “Can I ask you something?”

Malik nodded.

“What happened at the library?”

It was prying, and it probably wasn’t important, but Ryou wanted to know.

“Hmm…” Malik sat up, scratching the back of his neck as he stretched it one way, and then the other. He seemed to move with more ease now that he’d had a chance to air his concerns. “I was angry,” he said eventually. “And knocked some things down.”

“That would get you kicked out,” Ryou agreed, but to his surprise, Malik shook his head.

“That was after.”

“After what?”

The grimace that crossed Malik’s face just then could have only been fueled by extreme distaste. “ _Those_ people.”

The students they’d seen in front of the library?. “Did they say something to you?”

Malik made an affirmative noise.

“What?”

“They wanted me to leave them alone.”

Ryou didn’t say what he was thinking, but Malik must have known anyway, because he shook his head vehemently. “I did not speak to them,” he insisted.

“But you did _something_ ,” Ryou surmised, leaning back in his chair. “Right?”

Slumping down again, Malik glanced at Ryou and then looked away again, scratching lightly at the carpet with his fingernails as if the rough texture was suddenly more interesting than their conversation. 

“I thought I could…listen,” he said. “That place was quiet. I found it unpleasant.”

Ryou stared at Malik, his mind turning over the details as he pieced it all together. He was fascinated by this little revelation, could picture the events clearly in his mind’s eye: Malik drifting around the cold and silent shelves, only to stumble across a study area, a group of friends chatting quietly. Had he sat down among them, or stood above them, just listening? Did he get angry when they stopped to stare at him? Or just when they started to ask questions? Were they cold and hostile or openly aggressive? Or were they more good-natured about it, and tease him, thinking he’d be able to take it? Did they make jokes for each other’s amusement, laughing like self-assured people with nothing to lose? Had Malik understood the subtle emotional undercurrents that had flowed through that table when he’d arrived?

The sound of thumping against the door startled both of them; the Monster World manual thudded to the floor as Ryou stood up in alarm, questions forgotten, and Malik clenched his fingers impulsively into a fist, his head turning stiffly toward the front of the room.

They stared at the door. A voice, muffled, could be heard on the other side: “Yo! Bakura! You in there?”

Ryou swore under his breath. He’d been so distracted he hadn’t even noticed the sound of anybody coming up the stairs. He gestured furiously at Malik, who had started to stand.

“ _Stay down_!” he hissed. The blinds were still open and the lights were on, illuminating the whole room. In the grey evening light, anyone at the door would spot them immediately if they took even a few steps toward the window. _“_ Go wait in the bathroom.”

Malik didn’t move immediately in either direction. He stared at the door without moving, his expression tense and unreadable. Ryou gestured again, more insistently, and finally Malik moved his eyes to Ryou’s face.

The pounding at the door intensified.

“Coming!” Ryou exclaimed. He didn’t look away from Malik as he spoke in a low, clear voice, keeping his tone deliberate. He didn’t need to give Malik any reason to panic. “Wait in the bathroom,” he repeated. “ _I will take care of it_.”

It took a moment, but Malik nodded. He got up and moved in a low crouch toward the bathroom door.

Ryou waited until Malik pulled the door closed behind him and then grit his teeth and strode to the front door, pulling it open a few inches and plastering a friendly grin to his face.

“Hi Jounouchi,” he said, and then, realizing his friend hadn’t come alone, opened the door a little wider. “Honda.”

“‘Sup?” Jounouchi was leaning against the doorframe, hands shoved casually into the pockets of a hoodie. He glanced past Ryou into the apartment. Behind him, a little out of the light, Honda was leaning against the railing, arms crossed. He murmured his own greeting.

“It’s been a while,” Ryou said politely. “What brings you all the way to this side of town?”

Jounouchi and Honda exchanged a glance. Something was wrong. Honda was nervous or irritated about something, and Jounouchi was trying too hard to act casual.

Ryou had two options. He could confront them…or play dumb. He instinctively preferred the first option, but right now he really needed them to _go away_ , and option #2 seemed more likely to get him quick results.

He pulled the door open wider and positioned himself against the doorframe opposite Jounouchi, neatly setting up the illusion of hospitality while preventing any possibility of ingress into the apartment.

“Sorry,” he said, throwing in a sheepish laugh for good measure. “You guys surprised me. Nearly fell out of my chair when Jou started pounding on the door.”

The tension between them slackened a bit, and Jounouchi grinned at him, waggling his eyebrows. “What, you think I was the cops? You hiding something, Bakura?” He slapped his hands to his cheeks in mock horror. “DRUGS?”

Ryou would have happily picked up this premise and run with it, but Honda wasn’t about to be distracted from the subject at hand.

He cleared his throat. “You didn’t pick up your phone,” he said.

Ryou had forgotten all about the phone. He forced another laugh. “Right.”

No wonder they were here. Yuugi had sent them on some kind of welfare mission.

“I tried to call Yuugi on it this morning and I dropped it,” he explained. “Don’t know what I did, but it must have knocked something loose. Can’t get it to turn on now.”

Jounouchi immediately accepted his story. Honda looked thoughtful.

“Can I see it?” he said. “Maybe I can--”

“Threw it away. Sorry.”

Honda frowned at him, and Ryou stared steadily back. He was tempted to push Honda, to dig his heels in, see exactly how stubborn he’d get when push came to shove.

But he didn’t have time for a drawn-out confrontation. He stood up a little straighter and turned to Jounouchi, as if struck by a sudden burst of concern. “Something’s not wrong, is it?” he asked. “I didn’t miss something important?”

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Jounouchi said, oblivious to the silent war being waged between his two friends. “Yug said he couldn’t get calls through, so we thought we’d come by.”

“Well I’m happy to say that I’m fine,” Ryou said. “Just incommunicado. I’ll get a new one soon.” He shifted his weight. Honda and Jounouchi were clearly in no hurry to leave. “Thanks for coming out this way, though,” he said. “Must have been inconvenient.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, man. Whatchu been up to?”

Ryou answered absently, something bland about school and studying. He let that carry the conversation for a few minutes, refusing to budge from his spot in the doorway. He dropped hints that he had some important test he was studying for, hoping they’d assume he was busy and go away.

But Jounouchi had little patience for social pleasantries. He launched himself away from the wall, clamping Ryou’s head between his hands as he peered into his eyes.

“Give it up, Bakura,” he demanded, shaking Ryou’s head back and forth as if he was coddling a dog. “I know you’re dying for us to leave so you can hang out in your batcave and summon demons with your creepy witch books or whatever, but a guy’s gotta party sometime! Let’s go get some FOOD!”

“It’s called occultism and it’s a _science_ ,’” Ryou said archly, extricating his face out of Jounouchi’s grasp, but he couldn’t keep a straight face. He burst out laughing, and Jounouchi took a step back, crossing his arms with satisfaction.

Ryou rubbed his cheeks and smiled fondly up at Jounouchi. “Idiot.”

Honda barked out a laugh and Jounouchi huffed, unbothered. “Whatever,” he said. “It’s creepy.”

“I can be a creep if I want,” Ryou said. “And that’s not what I’m doing—I told you, I have to study. I’ve got a big test tomorrow.”

“It’s not like an hour’s gonna make a difference,” Honda said evenly, regaining his composure. “Right?”

Ryou gave him a dirty look, to which Honda merely grinned. He was enjoying this, the bastard.

“You can take a study break,” Jounouchi wheedled. “Come on! We can get _yakiniku_!”

Ryou wouldn’t easily get out of this. He couldn’t deny that he wanted to join them, but he couldn’t leave Malik here alone…and he couldn’t depend on their reactions if he explained what was really going on.

He glanced back inside his apartment, feigning hesitation as he cast about frantically for an excuse. His eyes fell upon the tub of VHS tapes. _Speaking of summoning demons…_ It was a bit of a gamble, but if he played it up right…

“Well, I was going to take a break later,” he admitted. “I got this movie the other day that I’ve been really wanting to watch. Maybe we could do a movie night?”

“Oh yeah? What movie?”

“ _Hellraiser_ ,” Ryou said gleefully. “Have you heard of it?”

Jounouchi backed up a little, suddenly dubious. “Oh, uh—“

Ryou wouldn’t let him go that easily. He leaned in as the blond tried to lean away, injecting a chipper enthusiasm into his voice. “It’s a cult horror film — you like that kind of thing, right Jou? — about this magic box that like, kills people and summons demons but—“ Ryou lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “—I heard the special effects are _really_ good, like in the flaying scene it looks like the hooks are really—“

“Oh wow, uh—“ Jounouchi, positively green now, disentangled himself and escaped to the other end of the balcony. “Sounds fun, but maybe, uh, some other time? Sounds like you got some important test coming up and so we’ll just leave you to your movie…maybe this weekend we can, uh, go to the arcade or something…” He glanced in his companion’s direction. “Honda, we have that um, thing later, right? We’d better get going.”

Bemused, Honda spread his hands. “What about _dinner_?“

“Not hungry!”

Jounouchi fled down the stairs into the dark, but Honda didn’t immediately move to join him. He laughed, putting his hands on his hips as he glanced up at Ryou.

“Smooth,” he said.

Ryou smiled politely, lifted his chin. He wouldn’t get away with lying to Honda, but he didn’t have to tell him the truth, either. “Stop worrying about me,” he said. “Everything’s fine.”

“You gonna tell us what’s going on?”

“Maybe. Not right now.”

Honda nodded, and then glanced, distracted, into the parking lot behind him, where Jounouchi was calling his name. In the dusk light, he was nearly invisible; his hair a pale patch of color in the dark.

“We’ve got your back, you know,” Honda said, turning his eyes back on Ryou.

“I know.”

“Call us if you’ve got a problem.”

“Phone’s broken,” Ryou reminded him, and Honda, flustered by this unexpected stumbling block, blushed and reached up to scratch the back of his neck.

“Right,” he said awkwardly. “It’s just, we never see you anymore—“

Ryou stared, surprised. Was it possible that maybe they _did_ want to hang out?

“Tell you what,” he said. “I just got some new Monster World stuff yesterday. Maybe we can hang out during Golden Week. Go through some campaigns.”

That seemed to do the trick. Honda’s face creased into a smile, reassured at last. “Yeah,” he said. “That’d be good.”

Jounouchi called up again from the parking lot noisily and plaintively informing them both that he was _hungry._

“That didn’t last long,” Honda muttered.

“Better hurry,” Ryou told him, grinning. “You have that ‘thing’ later, right?”

“Don’t worry,” Honda said. “I think that ‘thing’ is meat.”

Laughing, Ryou crossed his arms and nodded down the street. “There’s a good barbeque place about three blocks that way,” he said. “The one with the red windows.”

“Got it.” Honda reached out and patted Ryou’s shoulder with easy familiarity as he turned toward the stairs. “Good luck on that test, Bakura,” he said, without a shred of sarcasm. “Don’t be a stranger.”

The weight of Honda’s hand seemed to linger on Ryou’s shoulder even after he’d disappeared down the stairs. Uneasily, Ryou stood in the doorway and watched Honda and Jounouchi’s silhouettes regroup in the parking lot. When they were no longer visible in the dark, he retreated into his apartment, closing the door behind him.

There was a bitter taste in his mouth that he wished would go away. He’d lied to them before—and this was hardly a lie—but it wasn’t guilt that gnawed at him.

It had been too easy to get them to leave. It was as if they’d expected him to turn them down.

Were they just used to it? Had he already told them no that many times?

He went to the bathroom and knocked tentatively on the door. “They’re gone,” he said. “Can I come in…?”

There was no answer, and after waiting a moment, he tried the knob. Finding it unlocked, he pushed forward. The door moved a few inches, and then hit an obstacle and stopped.

“Malik?”

He heard Malik mutter something, but he couldn’t make out the unintelligible words. There was a pause. The door swung open.

Ryou saw the blood first. It was smeared on the bathroom counter and on the mirror, gleaming brightly under the vanity lights. Used bandages were scattered around the sink, a testament to Malik’s activities during Ryou’s absence.

Malik himself was standing in the doorway, holding the door open. He didn’t look particularly alarmed, so Ryou tempered his own reaction to match and took a moment to observe things.

Malik hadn’t seriously hurt himself, he decided. The smears of blood were shocking, but not egregious. There had been no major loss of blood. Malik had just picked open some barely-healed wounds. Inappropriate, but nothing to panic over.

“What happened?” Ryou asked. “Is something wrong?”

“Hm?” Malik glanced at the mirror where Ryou pointed, but his gaze was dismissive, uninterested. He peered out into the apartment. “Are they gone?”

Ryou took another look at the mirror. It wasn’t just random smears, like he’d initially thought. There was a pattern. He pushed the door open and stepped inside for a closer look, nudging Malik away from the counter.

A curved line here, a straight one there, and shapes that were possibly letters…or runes? Maybe Aramaic. Maybe older. In either case, he couldn’t make sense of it. “What _were_ you doing in here?”

Malik sniffed dismissively and crossed his arms. As he moved, Ryou saw the smear of crimson on his palms and sighed. First things first.

“Go sit in the kitchen,” he said. “You need some fresh bandages.”

“I’m fine—“

Ryou didn’t dignify that with a response. He pushed the door open with one hand and gestured impatiently with the other. Malik didn’t seem wholly committed to his resistance, and Ryou was in the mood to press a little harder. Time to see exactly how far the boundaries had shifted over the course of the day.

Malik eyed him for a moment, but left the bathroom without complaint. Once he was out of the way, Ryou knelt down and pulled the first-aid kit out from under the sink. He grabbed a package of wipes on the way and took a moment to mop up any visible blood.

The mirror, after a moment’s consideration, he left untouched. Something about those symbols made him anxious. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. Maybe Malik had been drawing at random. He’d done a lot of strange things so far, but Ryou wasn’t ready to dismiss any of it out of hand.

In the kitchen, Malik was sitting at the table, drumming his fingers impatiently on the scarred surface. Ryou set the first aid kit down beside him and went to the sink to run some water.

“He’s supposed to be dead,” Malik said behind him.

Ryou was still mulling over the symbols on the mirror. “Who?” he asked, testing the temperature of the water with his fingers.

“That man. The loud one.”

“Jounouchi?” Bemused, Ryou filled a bowl and brought it to the table, thinking hard. Then it clicked. He snapped his fingers. “Right,” he said. “You two dueled at Battle City, didn’t you?”

Jounouchi had been in a coma afterward. Ryou did remember that. He was a little pleased with himself for making the connection.

Malik was not so impressed. “I won.”

“So I heard.”

“I saw them carry him away,” he mused. Puzzling over his thoughts, he didn’t resist when Ryou took his hand and began to gently rinse the skin. “He fought God. He should not be here.”

“Well,” Ryou said reasonably. “Maybe God wasn’t as strong as you thought.”

As Malik snorted in indignation, Ryou ducked his head to hide a smile. “I know how that sounds,” he said. “But that’s the thing with magic.”

“What?”

“It’s never as permanent as you want it to be.” Ryou wiped his hands on his jeans and poked through the kit for the antiseptic. “It costs too much to maintain,” he added. “If you want to kill someone, you do it with your hands. That’s what I learned from watching the Spirit. You can banish people, you can trap their souls, you can summon demons to devour them, but gods, curses—they have a way of backfiring. People will fight back, as long as you let them. And they’ll win, eventually.”

Ryou used to be more enamored with magic—Jounouchi’s joke about summoning demons wasn’t too much of an exaggeration—but he’d been disillusioned for a long time now. He’d hated watching the Spirit of the Ring paint himself into a corner, chained to the same malevolent magic he was trying to control. There were too many people out there like Jounouchi. People like Atem and Kaiba and Anzu. All of his friends had that irrepressible quality; they were hard to knock off their feet, reluctant to surrender. Magic couldn’t work against people like that.

Maybe that was why he’d never felt comfortable in a dueling arena. How could you look at people like that, and think you had any hope against them?

“Magic is limited,” he said. “It’ll run out, eventually, and then you’ll be back to where you started.”

Malik nodded thoughtfully, examining the lacerations on his skin.

“So you attack me with glass,” he said, and Ryou laughed.

“Exactly. And it won’t heal, either, if you keep picking at it.” He took Malik’s hand back, applied the antiseptic. This time, Malik was ready for the shock of the sting, and only sucked in a breath before relaxing again.

Ryou brushed a cotton pad lightly over Malik’s skin. “Were you upset?” he asked. “Because Jounouchi was here?”

Malik considered this. “No."

Ryou switched out the antiseptic for a roll of gauze and began the meticulous process of applying new bandages. “Well…can you tell me why you did this to yourself?”

“I was bored.”

“What about the symbols on the mirror?”

“What symbols?”

Ryou shouldn’t have been disappointed by that answer, but he was, and that fact irritated him.

“Are you finding what you’re looking for?” he asked instead. “Looking through all my stuff?”

Malik twisted his head, frowning slightly. “I do not know,” he said. “It doesn’t feel…right. Something is missing.”

“Like what?”

“I do not know.”

 _It doesn’t feel right_. Malik kept repeating variations on this theme, but he’d said it so many times that Ryou wasn’t sure what he meant anymore. For all he knew, it didn’t mean anything. Maybe none of this meant anything. Maybe it was all random: just things Malik said or did whenever he was bored or uncomfortable.

He saw no point in pushing the conversation further. Neither of them seemed to know what they were talking about. Briskly, he finished wrapping up Malik’s hand and began to clean up.

After he put the first aid kit away and emerged from the bathroom, he saw Malik crouching by the bed, examining another VHS.

“What is a ‘hell raiser’?”

Ryou paused. Malik had overheard more of that conversation with Jounouchi and Honda than he’d had realized.

“ _Hellraiser_ ,” he said. “It’s a movie. Do you know what a movie is?”

He saw Malik’s expression and held his hands up in an immediate gesture of appeasement. “Sorry,” he said. “Of course you do.”

“I am not an idiot.”

“I know.” Ryou joined Malik beside the bed. “Sometimes it seems like you don’t know things about, you know, modern life,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean I think you’re an idiot.”

Malik said nothing to that, only looked at him thoughtfully as Ryou took the case, flipped it over to show Malik the blurb on the back. “It’s an British horror movie,” he said. “I couldn’t find a dubbed version so I had to special order it from Europe. It’s in English, but you can follow the story ok if you don’t speak it. Mostly I watch it for the gore.”

“You said a man is flayed.”

 _That_ gave Ryou pause. “Ye-es,” he admitted. If Malik had heard that much, there was no point in trying to lie. “It’s a splatter picture,” he said. “Pretty violent. If you aren’t used to that kind of thing you might not like it…” He hesitated again, debated a moment, and committed himself to the more interesting option: “Do you…want to watch it?”

Malik was examining the pictures on the box closely. He looked curious, but not particularly excited. “You like this?”

Ryou laughed shortly. “I think it’s fun. Not everyone would.” He sat down on the bed, glanced down at Malik. “Do you like movies?”

Malik tossed him a short irritated glare. “I don’t know.”

“Your other self, then.”

“He has seen movies,” Malik said. He turned the case over again, thoughtfully. “Not like this.” He held the tape out to Ryou. “Show me.”

Ryou took the tape. Based on what he knew of Malik’s background, this was nowhere near psychologically sound. He _did_ like this movie, though…and he was very curious how Malik would respond to it.

Besides, it had been Malik’s idea.

“Okay,” he said. “Give me a minute to set it up.”

Since the apartment was too small for a couch, his television was positioned at the end of the bed. Ryou moved a few of the pillows to make room for the both of them and set up the tape player. As he moved back to the head of the bed, he slipped a hand under the pillow and checked the sheath strapped to the back of the mattress. He wasn’t particularly worried: aside from their first meeting Malik had yet to display any real tendency toward violence, but he thought it might be better if Malik didn’t know about it.

He pressed play and then sat back. He patted the mattress next to him and Malik sat down hesitantly, settling into the pillows as Ryou tried to explain some of the premise.

“Really, all you need to know is that there’s a magic box, that one right there, called the Lament Configuration, and it summons the Cenobites. They’re like, uh, demons, but they’re sadistic, kind of like torture artists. They worship pain.”

Malik listened without comment, his attention fixed on the screen, and as the opening shots played out, Ryou waited with bated breath, counting down the seconds until the Cenobites manifested out of the bloody chaos, Pinhead himself marching through the curtains of hooks and viscera.

Malik’s reaction was disappointingly neutral. He frowned slightly, leaning back from the TV as he crossed his arms.

“You don’t like it?”

Malik shrugged indifferently. “It doesn’t look like that,” he said.

“What?”

“It doesn’t look like that,” Malik said. He blinked slowly, gazed at the screen. “Flaying a man.”

“Oh,” Ryou said. “Yeah.” he said. He adjusted his position, curled an arm around his legs. “I know it’s not,” he said. “It’s not real. This is all prosthetics. Rubber and stuff.”

“I see.”

Ryou turned back to the television, watched the characters move across the screen. “We don’t have to watch this if you don’t want to —“

“I do not mind.”

“It’s just, it’s for fun, you know? It’s a story. It wouldn’t be fun if it were real.”

Malik didn’t respond. Ryou bit his lip.

“If it bothers you—”

“I said I do not mind,” Malik interrupted, and Ryou nodded, resigned.

“It’ll get better,” he said. “Just keep watching.”

Malik nodded. Neither of them said anything for several minutes. Then Malik stirred slightly, his thigh pressing against Ryou’s as he stretched his legs down the bed.

“You like this movie?”

Ryou, who had gone very still, took his eyes away from the television and glanced back to see Malik staring at him.

“Yes,” he said, too quickly. He was being defensive. Malik’s expression didn’t change, but it seemed, for a moment, like one of his eyebrows had lifted slightly.

Malik glanced at the screen again, appraisingly. Looked back at Ryou.

“You are sure it gets better?”

It took a moment to parse what was happening, but when he did, Ryou started to laugh. Malik watched him, smiling with a certain degree of satisfaction, but Ryou was too delighted to be self conscious. Who knew that Malik was capable of comedy?

“Look,” Ryou said. “You can just say you don’t like it.”

“I know,” Malik said. “I am not sure yet.” He glanced at the screen and added, thoughtfully, “The movies my other half saw… they did not look like this.”

“What do you mean?”

“They looked more…real. Mostly talking. And shooting.”

“What, like crime movies?”

“Perhaps.”

Ryou had seen a few of those. Honda had definitely forced a few on the group during movie nights. They were okay, but Ryou preferred a little more color. The only thing he loved more than a campy _tokusatsu_ was a gorefest, and _Hellraiser_ had both qualities in spades.

“Well,” he said. “We all have our own tastes.”

Malik made an odd sound in the back of his throat. Maybe he agreed.

They kept watching the movie. During the longer expository scenes, Ryou attempted to explain what was happening on screen, but the further they got into the film, the more perplexed Malik became.

“Why is that woman helping that monster?”

“She loves him.”

“Why?”

“Sometimes people do things that don’t make sense,” Ryou said indifferently. It wasn’t really the time or place to explain the contradictory facets of the human heart. 

After a while, the pace of his questions slowed, and then they stopped completely. By the second act was in full swing, Malik seemed to have made peace with the premise of the movie.

Ryou, engrossed by the action, stopped checking for Malik’s reactions to the scenes, and it wasn’t until much later in the movie that he looked down and realized that Malik’s eyes were closed.

He hesitated, and then waved a hand a few inches away from Malik’s face. No response. He smiled and turned back to the TV.

That hadn’t really turned out the way he’d wanted, but it was far from the worst outcome. He was used to watching movies by himself anyway.

The rest of the movie passed without interruption, Malik dozed motionlessly at his side while Ryou sat cramped into the corner against the wall. He kept eyes on the screen and tried not to move, his skin tingling with awareness of the warm, heavy presence beside him.

Only when the credit started to roll did Ryou begin to stretch out his arms and legs, moving slowly.

He glanced at the still form beside him. It would be difficult to get out of the bed without waking Malik. He leaned over, careful not to get too close, cognizant that contact without warning hadn’t always gone over well in the past.

He paused for a moment, studying Malik’s face. His eyelids twitched as he grimaced in his sleep. This close, his skin looked rough, almost windburned. A sheen of blond stubble was starting to come in along his jaw. Ryou leaned closer.

He said Malik’s name, quietly.

There was no response at first. Ryou said it again. Malik’s eyes fluttered, he turned slightly, looked up at Ryou. His eyes widened. His expression changed: shock, and then fear, emotions washing over him until they morphed into vicious rage. He lurched up.

Adrenaline flooded Ryou’s veins. He threw himself backward, but he hadn’t moved fast enough: before he could get out of the way, Malik’s forehead collided with his face.

They both reeled away from each other, exclaiming. Ryou pressed his hands to his face. Through the smarting pain and the tears welling in his eyes, he heard Malik curse. A hand clenched his wrist.

“ _You_ —“

Malik’s words cut off, turned into a guttural, gasping sound. He let go of Ryou.

Ryou peered through his fingers. Malik was grimacing now, the heel of his hand pressed into one eye, the fingers of the other digging into his scalp. He shouted: hoarsely, wordlessly, and then seemed to relax, collapsing forward over his knees. His shoulders shuddered in small, irregular aftershocks.

They were silent for a moment, Ryou gritting his teeth as he pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose. Malik sat still, panting quietly.

Cautiously, Ryou bent his head. His eyes met Malik’s.

Malik started to laugh. He sounded stunned, relieved, but there was another dimension to his laughter too—an element of triumph. He was _pleased_.

“Hah,” he said, trembling a little as he sat up, brushing his hands over his face. “I did not expect him to flee like that.”

Had Ryou just made contact with the ‘original’ Malik? Gingerly, he prodded at his nose again, but it didn’t seem broken. Nothing was bleeding. He shook his head, wiping his eyes as he peered toward Malik.

“He hates me,” he said.

Malik frowned at him, puzzled, and shook his head. “No,” he said, slowly. “We do not.”

“I _saw_ it,” Ryou insisted. “I saw the way he looked at me. What just happened? What do you mean he fled?”

“He has no desire to be here,” said Malik. He shook his head again, more emphatically. “We do not hate you.”

Ryou couldn’t deny the evidence of his own eyes. “How do you know?”

Malik’s frown had grown stubborn. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, reluctant to look in Ryou’s direction.

“I do not,” he said finally. “So he can not.”

Ryou didn’t know what to say to that. _This_ Malik was obviously sincere, but how was Ryou supposed to reconcile that with the way the other Malik had looked at him?

“Okay,” he said. “But if you two want the same things—or feel the same things—then how can you want to be here, if he doesn’t?”

Malik shrugged. Ryou sighed and sat back, readjusting his legs. Another question, another answer which would have to wait until later.

“Is your head okay?” he asked.

Malik raised his fingers and prodded his forehead, where a red patch of skin, already fading, stood out against his hairline. He smiled. “I am unharmed,” he said. He expression sobered as he looked at Ryou. He lowered his arm. “You are still troubled."

Ryou looked away. He’d thought — or perhaps he’d hoped — that both sides of Malik were here of their own accord. Now he had to wonder if the two of them were at odds. It might not have been open warfare, the way Battle City had been, but certainly the other Malik hadn’t seemed happy to find himself in Ryou’s home.

“He’s trapped,” he said. “Isn’t he?”

With a short, humorless laugh, Malik swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He stood up and then rolled his head back to look back at Ryou. He didn’t need to say anything. His whole body was brimming with reproach.

“I’ve been trapped in my body,” Ryou said defensively. “I know what it’s like.”

“Your soul is no prison.”

Ryou clenched his jaw. His soul _had_ been a kind of prison: a stone tower he’d been locked inside on the occasional instance when the Spirit needed both body and privacy. 

“We share one soul,” Malik said. He had turned away from Ryou, did not look at him as he spoke with a low voice. “My other half occupies it. Its passages are unknown to me; he has blocked off the routes I once traveled freely. It is his will that rules it. Not mine.

“I cannot enter there. My other half closed the door, a long time ago.” He glanced back at Ryou. “If he wanted control of our body, I would have no strength against him. If I am here, it is by his will.”

The credits had stopped rolling. The video player reached the end of the tape, stopped and began to rewind, bathing them both in blue light. Rubbing his aching nose, Ryou moved to the end of the bed and turned the television off. He sat back, met Malik’s sober gaze.

“So this isn’t like before,” he said. Before, Malik had been imbued with the powers of the Millennium Rod. Before, his two sides had been evenly matched.

Malik nodded.

“If you have one soul between you,” Ryou asked. “How can he keep you out?”

Malik sighed. He ran a hand through his hair as he gazed at the window above Ryou’s head. “He created me,” he said. “That gives him power.”

“But where do you go?”

“…outside.”

“Outside?”

Malik nodded pensively. “In the dark.”

Ryou thought again of his soul room, of the dim stone walls, the sound of dripping water. It had been something clean and ordered once: he had vague memories of jungle flowers, of the sun shining through painted glass, of warm stone floors, but over time it had become a ruin: a cold place where weeds ran rampant and the wind never stopped howling. There were passages there: stairwells and tunnels and even a sky, but there was no “outside”. It was just itself, a space with clearly defined borders and no exits.

He’d talked to Yuugi about this once. They’d theorized that soul rooms were metaphorical constructs, an image of the corridors of the mind that became tangible when touched by the influence of the Millennium Items. They’d both continued to dream of their soul rooms, even long after the Items had been destroyed, and for a while Ryou had even had some success accessing his through self-hypnosis techniques.

In his understanding, the boundaries of a soul room were absolute. He couldn’t understand what Malik meant.

“What’s it like?” he said.

Malik was still staring vaguely out the window. He lowered his hand; Ryou saw it clench slightly in midair before it settled, motionless, at his side.

“Nothing,” he said, and turned back to Ryou. His expression was flat.

“My other self is not trapped,” he said. “There is no need to pity him.”

He disappeared into the bathroom, and after a moment Ryou heard the sound of the sink running. Slowly, he unfolded his legs and moved to the edge of the bed.

Did this change things? He considered what he knew, and tried to be objective. He did pity Malik — both of them — but he was encountering new doubt that he’d be able to help. If Malik was only here because of some repressed need for closure, then what would happen when he found it? And what if it wasn’t what Ryou wanted?

He glanced over at the bedside table, and then leaned across the bed to open the drawer. He plucked out the small wooden figure of the Thief King and held it in his lap, staring at it thoughtfully as he ran his thumb over the crack in the wood.

If some part of Malik hated him, or was avoiding him, they weren’t going to make much progress. Sooner or later, he would have to talk to Malik’s other side.

He didn’t want to. He couldn’t get over that sense of fear and loathing he saw in Malik’s eyes. Didn’t want to think about what made Malik feel that way.

He’d tried to reach out before, to touch on the things they’d had in common, but he’d been unable to breach the distance between them. They were acquaintances, almost strangers. There was no reason for Malik to feel anything toward him, except—

“Is this your fault?” he asked the figure, turning it over in his hands. _What did you do?_ he added silently, begging for an answer. _What did you tell him?_

Malik emerged from the bathroom and came back to the bed, where he sat down beside Ryou, who turned the figure over in his hands a few more times and then held it out to Malik.

After a breath’s hesitation, Malik took the figure. He handled it gently, almost gingerly, as if he thought it might break. His voice was quiet.

“Did he get a new body?”

Ryou stared blankly, but Malik’s gaze was still down, fixed on the wooden figure. “A new what?”

“Did the man come back to life? Did he get a new body?”

“Oh…in the movie?” Ryou had already forgotten about _Hellraiser_. “Um…yeah. I guess he did. His brother’s body. But then Cenobites found him and took him back to hell with them.”

Malik nodded. His expression looked…almost sad? Ryou was still puzzling it over when Malik spoke again.

“And the woman?”

“The woman?” Ryou shook his head. “You mean Julia? His lover?”

“Yes.”

“Well…he killed her.”

Malik did not respond for a moment. “...I see.”

The silence that followed was sharp and uncomfortable. Ryou glanced at the clock next to his bed.

“It’s late,” he said. “I’ll get the futon out.”

“That is not necessary—”

Ryou was already standing up, crossing the room to rummage through the closet. “What, you would rather sleep on the floor?”

“I do not need sleep.”

Ryou hefted the futon up with both arms and looked sharply at Malik. “Of course you do,” he said. “Don’t be stupid.”

Malik stiffened, but Ryou ignored him, laying the futon out beside the bed with no regard for where Malik was sitting, forcing him to hastily pull his legs up out of the way as Ryou unfolded it.

“I am not—”

“Did you sleep last night?”

The expression on Malik’s face was an eloquent enough answer. Ryou rose and went back to the closet for sheets.

“Your body needs sleep,” he said. “That’s a biological fact. You can’t just go without.”

Malik hunched his shoulders up and shook his head. Ryou paused. Malik had changed personalities after he’d fallen asleep during the movie. “Is it because of your other self?” he asked. “Are you afraid of him taking over?”

Malik shrugged, crossed his legs on the bed. “It might open the door,” he admitted. “But he could open the door himself, if he wished.”Carefully he placed the wooden figure on the bedside table beside him, where it stood in sharp relief under the light of the lamp. ““It is something else.” he said. “The way it feels.”

Sitting back on his heels, Ryou considered this. “Sleeping, you mean?”

Malik nodded, gaze fixed pensively on the wooden figure. “I don’t like it.”

“Why?”

“It is…” Malik struggled for a moment, looking for the right words, “Like that other place,” he said. “Outside.”

Ryou pressed a finger thoughtfully against his lips. Was the “outside” of a soul room so immense, so isolated, that it was completely void? Did the lack of access to one’s own soul make even dreaming impossible? He was dying to know what Malik’s internal life must look like. How did he think? Could he visualize images?

He shook his head. This didn’t change anything. “You have to sleep,” he said stubbornly, latching onto the plain facts. “I understand that you don’t like it—“

“No,” Malik said. “You do not understand. This place—even silent, even dark, it has more in it than that place ever will.” He unfolded his arms, held out his hands, clenched them into fists. “Here I can _breathe_ ,” he said. “I can…” He stilled, his gaze turning inward, intense.

When he spoke again, his voice was forceful, final. “I will not go back,” he said, glaring at Ryou. “He cannot make me.”

Ryou massaged the back of his neck. Yikes. The last thing he needed was Malik making an enemy of his other half. Ryou wouldn’t be able to intervene without taking a side, and this wasn’t the kind of problem he felt equipped to fix. Achieving inner peace and self-actualization wasn’t exactly a skill in his wheelhouse.

“What’s your real goal here, then?” he asked. “If you find out why you’re here, or what happened between your other self and the Spirit of the Ring, what will happen? Won’t that give you closure? What if he doesn’t need you anymore after that?”

Malik seemed taken aback by Ryou’s questions, as if he hadn’t considered the implications of those answers. They stared at each other a moment, but eventually Malik tightened his lips.

“I am the parts of us he does not like,” he said. “I want the things he wishes he did not want. If he fears the truth, then finding it might make me stronger.” He hesitated, glanced at Ryou, suddenly vulnerable.

“You said you would help me.”

“I did,” Ryou said. He levered himself to a standing position, taking his time so he could think. He _could_ refuse Malik, if he had to, and get away with it.

But he didn’t want to. This was getting more complicated, but he wasn’t about to give up on answers just because obtaining them suddenly became morally sticky. This aspect of Malik: the lost, neglected side, had captured his attention and won his sympathy. It made him biased, it meant he’d have to take a side, but Ryou couldn’t help that.

“I might not be able to help you the way you need,” he said, and Malik nodded, his eyelids lowering as he looked down at the floor between them.

“You can,” he said, and raised his head again, met Ryou’s eyes. His gaze was meaningful. “I know you can.”

Ryou swallowed. “Well,” he said. “I’m going to try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wheeeeeew this chapter ended up doubling in length between drafts, which is terrifying considering I have eight more chapters planned and the chapters only get longer going forward. It's hysterical to me that my original concept for this story was intended to run about 30k, and here we are pushing that number at Chapter 4 (of 12, yikes)
> 
> Anyway, thanks so much to everyone who has left comments and kudos so far! It's really helps motivate me to continue working on this monster. <3


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